


Soul Crossed

by Aini_NuFire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Leviathans, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Fix-it, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Possession, Post-Season/Series 06 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-29 09:52:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5123237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas truly thought he’d raised Sam from the Cage whole. He just didn’t realize that what he brought back wasn’t 100% Sam…and the boys didn’t recognize a change in their angel until it was too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mistaken Identity

**Author's Note:**

> I never wanted to touch a season 6/7 fic because I hated Cas going dark side. But I guess my muse decided I needed a challenge, so this fix-it came about. I’ll warn you, it’s going to be very painful before there’s a resolution.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Supernatural, or the lines lifted from seasons 6 and 7.

Dean and Bobby carefully made their way into the building where Cas and Crowley were poised to pop Purgatory. An angel killing sword was in Dean’s hand, and he was mentally preparing himself for having to use it. Cas had gone off the deep end, and Dean had to do everything within his power to stop the angel, even if that meant killing him. And since Cas had taken down Sam’s wall and left him in a friggin’ coma, Dean didn’t think it’d be all that difficult for him to do. ****

He entered through a door at the top of a set of stairs leading down to a laboratory, but the sight that greeted him wasn’t exactly what he’d expected. Crowley was there, reciting an incantation in front of a blood sigil painted on the wall. But Cas was nowhere to be seen. A black woman stood next to Crowley instead, and the hair on the back of Dean’s neck stood on end—he had a strong inkling as to who _that_ was.

He didn’t have time to wonder where Cas was in all this, for the spell would be complete soon and Purgatory opened. Standing at the top of the stairs, Dean arched his arm back and threw the angel blade at Raphael’s back. Without turning around, the archangel whipped his hand around and caught the blade before it could pierce his vessel. Dean silently swore as Raphael and Crowley turned to look at them. Then he felt an invisible force punch his chest and propel him down the stairs. He landed on a table with a hard thud before dropping to the floor. Bobby tumbled into a heap a few feet away.

“Bit busy, gentlemen,” Crowley said. “Be with you in a moment.”

Dean groaned, rolling onto his side and grimacing as his back spasmed. _Shit_. Raphael now had his only weapon against an angel. He vaguely heard Crowley finish the spell, and Dean’s heart stuttered with a profound sense of failure. But then he noticed that nothing had happened.

“Hm, maybe I said it wrong,” Crowley mused.

There was a flap of wings, and Dean caught a flash of tan trench coat in his peripheral vision.

“You said it perfectly,” Cas said. “All you needed was this.”

Dean pushed himself to his feet as Cas set an empty jar stained with blood on a cart. _No_ …

“I see.” Crowley walked to the wall and touched the blood painted there. “And we’ve been working with…” He tasted it. “Dog blood. Naturally.”

“Enough of these games, Castiel,” Raphael snapped. “Give us the blood.”

Crowley snorted in disbelief. “You- game’s _over_. His jar’s empty.” He turned back to Cas with mild curiosity. “So, Castiel, how’d your ritual go? Better than ours, I’ll bet.”

Cas closed his eyes, and then suddenly began to glow. The light grew in intensity until Dean and Bobby had to throw their arms up to shield their eyes. Dammit, they were too late!

The light faded, and Dean had to blink spots from his vision. Crowley and Raphael looked just as disoriented by the show.

“You can’t imagine what it’s like,” Cas spoke, voice sounding far too calm and awestruck than the situation warranted. “They’re all inside me. Millions upon millions of souls.”

“Sounds sexy,” Crowley replied, and in the next instant he’d disappeared.

Dean wished he and Bobby could do the same. Standing on the sidelines while two juiced up angels had a nuclear showdown was not something he wanted to partake in. Raphael actually looked frightened, which wasn’t all that surprising considering Cas looked _frightening_. There was an otherworldly glow to his skin, a lingering silhouette after that brief display of power from all the souls he’d ingested.

“Now what’s the matter, Raphael?” Cas taunted. “Somebody clip your wings?”

Raphael’s brow furrowed, and his gaze narrowed shrewdly on Cas. Then the vessel’s eyes flew wide in what seemed to be shock mixed with a glimmer of…joy? Raphael took a tentative step forward, hand reaching out, not to smite, but as though to embrace Cas. Dean exchanged a bewildered look with Bobby.

“Brother, is that you?” Raphael gasped hopefully. “What are you—”

Cas snapped his fingers, and Raphael exploded in a shower of blood and guts that splattered the walls and floor. The angel blade he’d been holding clattered on the tiles. Cas then turned his head to Dean and Bobby, expression carefully neutral.

“O-okay, Cas,” Dean finally managed to stammer. “You did it, you defeated Raphael. Now let’s defuse you, okay?”

“No,” Cas replied somewhat sharply. “The souls belong with me. I still have work to do.”

Dean’s stomach clenched. “No, Cas, it-it’s scrambling your brain. You don’t need this kind of juice anymore. Get rid of it before it kills us all.”

Cas rolled his eyes. “Here Castiel saved you, and yet you can’t manage even a modicum of gratitude. It’s astonishing, really, why he stayed devoted to you at all.”

Dean frowned. What the hell…was this like a punch-drunk Cas referring to himself in the third person? “Listen to me! Listen, I know there’s a lot of bad water under the bridge, but we were family once—” He cut off in stunned surprise as Sam stumbled into the laboratory and picked up the fallen angel sword. Dean wanted to shout at him not to do it—he’d thought he could, thought he could kill Cas without compunction, but instead Dean found himself desperately wishing that he could simply talk Cas down…but if the angel wouldn’t listen…dammit, they couldn’t let him destroy the world.

“Cas, please.” Dean wasn’t above begging, not for this.

Cas’s next words cut through him like a razor from Alastair’s rack. “You’re not my family, Dean. I have no family.”

Sam lunged, driving the angel blade into Cas’s back. Dean turned away to avoid the resulting flash of light, but none came. When he looked back, Castiel casually pulled the blade out and put it down. There wasn’t even blood on it.

“I’m glad you made it, Sam. But the angel blade won’t work because I’m not an angel anymore. I’m your new God. A better one. So you will bow down and profess your love unto me, your Lord. Or I shall destroy you.”

Dean’s mouth dropped open. He had to be friggin’ kidding!

For a long moment, nobody moved, and then Bobby slowly started getting on his knees. “Well, all right then. Is this good, or you want the whole ‘forehead to the carpet’ thing?” He shot Dean and Sam a pointed glare. “Guys?”

“Cas, come on,” Dean pressed. “This isn’t you.”

Cas’s stoic face broke into an uncharacteristic grin then; Cas’s smiles were always subtle and slightly awkward, but this was an almost crazed, exhilarated beam. He shook his head in amusement. “That’s true. So I suppose there’s no reason to keep up the charade anymore.” He began to pace casually, and Dean felt a whole new sense of unease. This wasn’t right. Cas was always so _still_ , having not perfected human mannerisms even after three years hanging with the Winchesters.

“Who are you?” Dean demanded. Some monster soul from Purgatory?

Cas—or whatever it was—smiled. “I thought you’d instinctively recognize me, Dean. Though, I admit I’m not quite the same. Your darling little Sammy here can tell you that the Cage does terrible things to one’s mind.” The thing wearing Castiel’s face lolled his head to the younger Winchester, a smug smirk tugging his mouth.

Dean’s blood ran cold as that tone and that phrase rang eerily familiar. It couldn’t be…

Sam backed up, eyes wide with terror. “Lucifer?” he rasped.

“No,” Dean grunted, gut turning to lead. “Michael.”

The archangel beamed at him.

Dean clenched his fists. “How? Cas popped Purgatory, not Hell.”

Michael laughed. “Oh, I’ve been back much longer than that, Dean.” He flicked his gaze toward Sam again, and Dean hated the way the archangel was positively gloating. “You see, Sam, when Castiel raised you from the Cage, he thought you were intact. He didn’t realize that the little spark of soul he cradled so protectively was actually grace. Dimmed down and subdued to mimic a frail, human soul. And with how fiercely he guarded that piece when he flew out of Hell, it was easy to slip past his walls and latch onto him instead.”

Sam could only stare in horror, which was exactly how Dean felt. How could this have happened? How could he not have noticed over the past _year_ that Michael was riding around in Cas?

“No,” he growled. “You’re not that good an actor. All the times Cas came to help us, that wasn’t _you_.”

Michael shrugged. “True. I couldn’t take full control right away. At first, I merely bided my time. Raphael was going to destroy Castiel anyway, and then we could restart the Apocalypse.” He paused, mouth curving upward. “But then the most intriguing thing happened—a demon came to Castiel with a proposition.”

“So, what, you got on the pop Purgatory band wagon?” Dean snarled.

“No. I accepted it.” Michael let the implication hang in the air for a moment. “Castiel was going to refuse; I saw it in his mind. He wanted to go to you for help instead, even though it pained him to bring you back into the battle.” The archangel sneered in disgust. “That was the first time I surfaced. And steadily more often as time went on.”

Any retort Dean had disintegrated like wax on his tongue. He’d accused Cas of not coming to him for help, of choosing a demon over them. Cas hadn’t denied it, but…how much of the past few days, hell _weeks_ , had Dean’s conversations with the angel really been with Michael? Dean’s and Cas’s friendship had been strained this year, and Dean had spent a good deal of time being pissed at the angel. What if his anger had clouded his perception? What if when he accused Cas of being a dick, it’d been Michael instead?

“Why’d you kill Raphael?” Bobby spoke up gruffly when it seemed neither Winchester was going to say anything. At least he’d gotten up off the damn floor. “Weren’t you two bosom buddies?”

Dean felt another revelation punch him in the gut. Raphael must have recognized Michael in those last moments. But if Michael hadn’t intended to keep up the act in front of the Winchesters, why kill the other archangel?

“Time in the Cage has a way of…changing one’s perspective,” Michael replied, and there was a brief flash of darkness in his eyes. “I tried to be the good son, do what was right and expected of me. It was all supposed to turn out a certain way.” His voice had grown softer and more distant, but then it flared to life again as Michael raised his head. “My father is long gone. So instead of his version of paradise, I decided it was time to make a new one.”

“You’re saying Cas wasn’t working with Crowley?” Sam joined the conversation, sounding breathless and unsteady.

“Didn’t know a thing about it. Death isn’t the only one who knows how to put up walls.”

Dean’s heart dropped into his stomach. “ _You_ took down Sam’s wall,” he whispered.

Michael cocked his head, but it was nothing like Cas’s inquisitive or confused mien, just pure superiority and arrogance. He smirked at Sam. “Enjoy the hallucinations that are to come, Sammy.”

Dean stiffened. _What?_ Fury erupted in him like an atomic bomb, and he almost charged the douchebag wearing his best friend’s face. “You son-of-a-bitch. Cas! If you’re in there, you have to fight him!”

Michael angled a forbearing look his way. “He can’t hear you, Dean. But even if he could, I doubt it would do any good. The last memories he has of you all is trapping him in a ring of holy fire and leaving him there as a cloud of demons descended.”

Dean sucked in a breath. “What?”

Michael grinned. “I let him catch a few crucial moments. Oh, like just now with Sammy stabbing him in the back. Castiel currently believes he’s dying from that blow after his beloved Winchesters left him in this cold, dark place. Alone.”

Sam’s face drained of color. Dean’s own chest was getting too tight to breathe properly. This couldn’t be happening.

“Well,” Michael said jovially. “I have work to do. I hope for your sake this is the last you see of me.” And with that, he disappeared.

Dean staggered forward, arm raised halfway as though he could grab an invisible wing and bring Cas back. Cas, who he’d thought had betrayed them, who he’d thought had _intentionally_ hurt Sam by bringing down the wall. But Cas hadn’t done any of those things. He’d been locked in his own head—still was. Just like Sam.

Bobby cleared his throat. “What do we do now?”

Dean looked up to meet the older hunter’s eyes, then glanced at Sam. He frowned when a trickle of blood starting streaming from Sam’s nose. Dean’s heart rate spiked. “Sam, you okay?”

Sam let out a choked gasp and fell to his knees, cutting his hand on a jagged piece of broken glass. Dean and Bobby darted over, just as Sam let out a garbled scream and squeezed his eyes shut. Dean grabbed his shoulders, shouting his name, but then Sam fell limp in his arms.

“No, no, no, come on Sam!” Dean shook his brother.

Bobby gripped his wrist to stop him, his expression compassionate yet stern. “Let’s get him home.”

Swallowing hard, Dean nodded and helped Bobby lift Sam from the floor. Helplessness began spreading through Dean’s limbs, sweeping in with a numbness he was all too used to feeling—and hated. He’d lost Lisa and Ben. He’d lost Sam. Now he’d lost Cas too. And Dean couldn’t help but think that it was somehow his fault.


	2. The Nightmare's Real

Sam squeezed his eyes tight as the first thing he became aware of was a dull throbbing in his head. What happened? He pried his eyelids open, and was somewhat surprised to find himself in his room upstairs at Bobby’s place. The sensation of waking up drowsy was a little like deja vu, except the time before he’d been in the panic room. Why had he been down there?

He slowly pushed himself upright and swung his legs over the side of the bed to plant his bare feet on the floor. There’d been something he needed to do, something he needed to help Dean and Bobby with… The last twenty-four hours came slamming back into the forefront of his mind like a freight train. Purgatory, Cas, his wall… _Michael_. Sam sucked in a sharp breath. If he was here though, they must have escaped, but Sam didn’t remember much of the end except fire…

A lick of heat brushed across his skin, and Sam surged to his feet to escape it. Fighting for control of his breathing, he focused on getting dressed fully and then ventured downstairs. He found Dean in the kitchen, popping a cap off a bottle of beer.

“Hey, Dean,” he said, embarrassed how scratchy his voice came out.

Dean jerked in surprise before a calm mask quickly fell over him. “Ah, you’re walking and talking.”

Sam rolled his shoulder awkwardly. “Yeah. I, uh, put on my own socks, the whole nine.”

“Well, that’s uh…I mean you, uh, you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam assured him quickly. “My head hurts a little, but…basically.”

“Seriously?” Dean said, his skepticism clear on his face.

Sam knew he was just concerned, but he didn’t want to dwell on it at the moment. He’d been warned not to poke at the wall, and now that it was gone, he was afraid even _thinking_ about how he was feeling would trigger something. “Seriously.” Sam glanced into the empty den. “Uh, what happened with Cas—er, Michael?”

Dean took a swig of beer, classic avoidance technique. “Don’t know,” he replied gruffly. “Michael took off.”

Sam’s heart fell. He should have figured. “So how we gonna find him?”

“We don’t.” Dean slammed the bottle on the counter and crossed his arms as he skewered Sam with a sharp look. “So, hallucinations?”

Sam blinked at the abrupt change in subject, not only because he _really_ didn’t want to talk about it, but because Dean was brushing off the Cas-Michael situation like it was a stray dog no one cared ran away.

“It’s fine, Dean.”

“It’s not ‘ _fine_ ,’ Sam,” his brother growled. “The dam’s broken and you’ve got Hell on parade up there.”

Sam looked away with a scowl. What the hell were they supposed to do about it anyway? Nothing, so why couldn’t Dean just leave it alone? Besides, it wasn’t _that_ bad. Sam was awake, in full control of his mental capacities.

The distant sound of chains rattling had him furrowing his brow and looking around for the source. What the… The jingling was eerily familiar, and Sam felt his pulse quicken for no reason. As he tried to pinpoint the location of the sounds, his gaze met Dean’s, whose mouth had disappeared in a tight line of disapproval. Sam quickly shook it off.

“I’ll deal,” he insisted. “But right now we have to figure out how to save Cas.”

Dean snorted. “You really are delusional.”

Sam stiffened in anger and indignation. “What the hell does that mean?”

Dean whirled on him, throwing his arms out. “It’s _God_ for crying out loud! What are we supposed to do? We stick our heads out, they’re gonna get squished.”

Sam stared in bewilderment. “So, what, you’re just gonna abandon Cas? Leave him to be possessed and tortured by Michael for the rest of eternity?”

“Cas could already be dead by now,” Dean retorted.

“You don’t know that.” Sam couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Since when did Dean _ever_ give up? Yeah, this was bad, and seemed like insurmountable odds, but what did he call the freakin’ Apocalypse? And they’d beaten that!

“You heard what Michael said,” Dean bit out. “Cas thought he was dying.”

Sam felt as though a knife had been stuck between his ribs and twisted, and a surge of bile choked off any words he might have mustered. Yeah, Cas thought he was dying because _Sam_ had stabbed him. And Michael let Cas see it, without any context or understanding why. Hell, it’d sounded like Cas didn’t even _know_ Michael was possessing him.

Sam recalled the stunned look of disbelief Cas had given him when he accused the angel of bringing him back soulless on purpose.

_“How could you even think that?”_

Oh god, Cas had tried, he truly thought he’d rescued Sam whole, and because of that unwavering determination to save the younger Winchester, Cas had ended up being taken over by a megalomaniac archangel instead. They’d been so convinced Cas had betrayed them, but in reality he’d been the one betrayed.

Dean ran a hand over his hair. “Shit, I’m sorry, Sammy, I didn’t mean…”

“We have to fix this, Dean,” he said hollowly.

The sad look his brother gave him in return said he would—if he had any damn clue how to.

Shuffling drew both their attention to the den as Bobby entered. The older man gave Sam a nod, conveying in one look how happy he was to see Sam with them again. But he didn’t waste words on a reunion, and instead went straight to turn on the small television set in the kitchen.

“You boys should see this.”

A CBA news studio filled the screen with a red ‘Breaking News’ banner running across the bottom. _“The sudden deaths of some two hundred religious leaders are currently under investigation. The Vatican has yet to issue a statement, but some are already calling this an act of God.”_

The image switched to a woman being interviewed outside a church.

_“We all saw him. No beard, no robe. He was young…and…and sexy. He had a raincoat.”_

Dean reached out and shut the TV off. Bobby gave them both grim looks, but didn’t say anything either.

Sam cleared his throat. “What do we do now?”

Dean snatched up his beer and knocked back a long drag. He pulled a face as it went down. “I’m gonna go fix my car.”

Sam watched helplessly as Dean stormed out, the screen door slamming shut behind him. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. Dean was supposed to be the one with the plan, even if it was a stupid plan. The one with indomitable determination. He wasn’t supposed to just give up.

“You okay, son?”

Sam shifted his gaze to Bobby. “No, no I’m not.” He didn’t elaborate that he meant the situation, not his damn wall, and simply pivoted on his heel to march into the den where he grabbed a seat and threw himself into research.

Over the next few hours, Sam looked up everything he could about the power of souls, angelic possessions, even rampaging deities, because Michael wasn’t the first to have a god-complex. The radio played in the background, its periodic reports urging Sam to work faster while also driving the stake of despair further and further into his heart.

_“Believed to be target hits high up in white-supremacy organizations. The FBI now believes the Ku Klux Klan has been forced to disband.”_

Sam snorted; that was something.

_“A freak lightning strike on the heels of the fire that burned down the Center for Vibrational Enlightenment earlier today. Said a spokesman, ‘this tragedy represents the largest loss in New Age motivational speaker history.’”_

Was Michael intentionally being ironic?

Dean came inside eventually, only to grab another beer and proceed to drink himself into oblivion. Bobby had been silently helping Sam with research, but had dozed off twenty minutes ago. Sam stared at the open book in front of him. He hadn’t found anything remotely useful or promising, and even though it’d only been a day, Michael was making quick work, and Sam knew he couldn’t keep up. Every once in a while his concentration had been broken by the echo of chains or a high-pitched scream. He’d startled the first several times, but since Bobby never reacted to the noises, Sam started doing his best to simply ignore them.

The words on the page began to blur, and Sam found himself growing angry. Angry that he couldn’t do more, angry that Dean wasn’t in here helping, angry that his wall was down…angry that he’d _been_ angry at Cas over it. Where was Cas now? Did he know what Michael was doing, wearing his vessel? Was he even aware? Or if he was, was the angel merely left drowning in a dark abyss, wondering why the Winchesters had turned on him?

Sam wrenched himself away from the desk. He couldn’t keep doing this. He needed…needed to think of another approach. Glancing at Dean passed out at the kitchen table, Sam made his way outside and down a row of junk cars for some privacy. Once alone, he turned in a slow circle, tilting his head back toward the sky.

“Hey, Cas, I don’t know if you can hear me. And this prayer is just for you, not Michael, so…that’s gotta mean that douchebag can’t hear it.” He gave himself a small shake to get back on track. “So I don’t know what Michael’s done to you, and maybe you’re pretty confused…about things.” His heart twinged with the thought that Michael had let Cas believe Sam stabbed him in the back to kill him. What was even worse though, was that was exactly what Sam had done. Yeah, he’d been trying to protect Dean and the world…but maybe there was some hurt and anger over Cas breaking his wall too. Enough that Sam had gone for the killing blow, rather than to incapacitate. And it turned out it hadn’t been Cas at all. Sam needed to apologize; he needed to get Cas back so he could fix this.

Sam swallowed around the lump in his throat. “But we can put the souls back in Purgatory. You just…you have to fight Michael’s control. Cas…I know you can find your way back to us.” Sam looked around, shoulders drooping when nothing happened. He shouldn’t have expected an instantaneous result anyway. All he could do was hope Cas heard him—and found the strength to fight back.

* * *

Castiel groaned and opened his eyes, blinking at his bleary surroundings. As they coalesced into solid, taupe walls, democratic posters, and blue balloons, Castiel furrowed his brow in confusion. Where was he? The last thing he remembered was… He swallowed hard. A dark laboratory of some kind, the Winchesters, and…Sam stabbing him with an angel blade.

Castiel tried to sit up, wincing as pain shot through his entire body. How was he still alive? That wound should have killed him. He was too disoriented to focus more on why the Winchesters had turned on him. Had they been possessed by demons? The boys were warded, but tattoos could be warped. Except…before that, Dean, Sam, and Bobby had trapped him in a ring of holy fire, angrily demanding if Castiel had brought Sam back soulless on purpose. The memory of their distrust and hate still hurt just as much as his current physical aches. And then they’d left him there…

With a grunt, Castiel pushed himself upright. His vision blurred again with the strenuous movement, and when it cleared, he noticed the bright red splotches on his coat and sleeves. Reaching around to his back, he felt for the stab wound, but couldn’t find it. Why did he hurt then? And how did he get here?

Fiery pain erupted down his spine again and throughout his very core, stealing his breath. What was happening? Castiel slowly got to his feet, eyes widening in horror as he saw the bodies scattered around him, broken and bloody. They were not angels though—no wing prints on the floor. They were human, but Castiel had no idea who these men and women were. His gaze dropped to the blood on his hands, and a sickening feeling settled in his stomach. He couldn’t say how, but he felt as though _he_ had done this.

Castiel turned and limped toward the back room and into the bathroom. He nearly collapsed against the sink, knuckles whitening around the porcelain rims in an effort to hold himself up. Another burst of pain exploded inside him, and that’s when Castiel felt it. Or rather, _them_. Millions of souls.

He undid the buttons of his shirt and pulled the edges apart. Dozens of things squirmed underneath his skin, bulging and pressing against his flesh. These were not humans. No, they were _monsters_ , which meant…

Castiel bowed over the sink and threw up a mixture of blood and bile. How had this happened? He knew Crowley had been searching for a way to open Purgatory and harvest the souls there, but how had _Castiel_ absorbed them?

_“Hey, Cas.”_

He staggered as Sam Winchester’s voice filled his head.

_“I don’t know if you can hear me. And this prayer is just for you, not Michael, so…that’s gotta mean that douchebag can’t hear it.”_

Michael?

_“So I don’t know what Michael’s done to you, and maybe you’re pretty confused…about things.”_

Confused was a vast understatement. Castiel stared at the reflection of his vessel in the mirror, noting the patches of skin along his neck and hairline that were mottled and peeling. Just like Lucifer’s vessel, Nick, had been when he couldn’t contain an archangel’s immense power indefinitely.

_“But we can put the souls back in Purgatory,”_ Sam’s prayer continued. _“You just…you have to fight Michael’s control. Cas…I know you can find your way back to us.”_

What was Sam talking about with Michael? …But in the next shockwave that wracked his body, Castiel finally felt the archangel’s presence. Michael was battling the souls as they fought against his control. Castiel’s head reeled. Michael was _possessing_ him? How…the archangel was supposed to be in the Cage! But he must have escaped somehow when Castiel went in for Sam. Castiel’s breath hitched. Was that…was that how Sam had ended up soulless?

Castiel lurched forward and vomited again. It took several moments for the dry heaves to peter out, and then he slid down to the floor. This couldn’t be happening. _Please may it not be happening_. But it was, as every twinge and cramp proved. The power of all those souls was slowly ripping him to pieces, and Michael’s own bursts of power to keep them in line wasn’t helping. They would escape eventually, and that would be very bad for the earth.

_‘Put the souls back.’_ That’s what Sam had said. Yes, that’s what Castiel needed to do. But he would need help. His heart clenched irrationally at the thought of going to the Winchesters. They obviously knew about Michael, and that must have been why Sam had stabbed him, in an effort to stop the archangel from unleashing Purgatory.

_Then why did they trap you in the holy fire, accuse you of intentionally botching Sam’s rescue?_ a small voice asked. Castiel tried to come up with a rationalization for that…but failed.

Yet it didn’t matter, he told himself. The souls had to be returned to Purgatory, or they could destroy the world. Sam and Dean would do everything in their power not to let that happen, and that was most important right now. How they felt about Castiel…that was irrelevant.

Prying himself off the floor, Castiel took a deep breath, gritted his teeth against the pain, and spread his wings to catch the ether.


	3. Fix It

Dean had a pounding headache, but it didn’t stop him from grabbing another beer, this one lukewarm because he’d been too drunk to replenish the stock in the fridge, and no one else had bothered to help him out with it. He’d hammered out the dents in the Impala, and that had worked for venting his frustration, but it hadn’t fully released it. Anger, helplessness, and guilt still festered in his gut like churning acid. It was a feeling Dean was well familiar with, having lived with it every single day for a year while Sam had been stuck in the Pit with Lucifer. And in the particularly dark moments, like he was experiencing now, Dean had prayed to Cas, his best friend.

And when Cas never answered, Dean had been crushed, abandoned by those he cared about more than anything in the world. That hurt had turned to bitterness and resentment, so when Cas finally did show his face again, things weren’t the same between them. But looking back, Dean wondered if Cas had heard his prayers, had gone into the Cage to bring Sam back to him.

His heart twisted with fresh agony. The irony was that even after everything, the year of building up bad feelings between them, Dean still yearned to pray to the angel again, to confess the roiling emotions he’d never let show and beg Cas to help him like the angel used to. Yet Dean knew Cas still wouldn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. He’d told Sam that Cas was probably dead, and a small part of him hoped it was true, because somehow believing Cas was alive and trapped in a memory of Dean betraying him seemed so much worse than death. For both of them.

He shook his head sharply; he didn’t want to think about it. There was nothing he could do anyway. Slamming the beer bottle on the table with a clunk, Dean yanked his laptop over and clicked open a video that didn’t require any mental engagement to enjoy.

A short while later, a shadow fell over him, and Dean didn’t have to look up to know it was Sam. All Dean had seen of the kid recently was him hunched over a book in Bobby’s study. Like that was gonna do them any good. But Dean hadn’t had the heart to tell him that, though he was worried about Sam not taking it easy. Sleep deprivation couldn’t be good for those hallucinations Michael said he’d have. But that was another problem Dean couldn’t fix, so he kept his mouth shut for now.

“Pull up a beer, Sammy,” he said roughly.

“Only if you turn that off.”

Dean gave his little brother a pissy look, but before he could form a retort, there was a flutter of wings and puff of air against Dean’s face. And suddenly there was Cas under the archway of the den, covered in blood. Dean could only stare in bewilderment, wondering if he was the one having hallucinations.

“Sam, I heard your call,” Cas said in that familiar gravelly voice, though it sounded harsher than normal. He slumped against the door frame. “I need help.”

Dean shut the laptop forcefully and surged to his feet. “Cas, is that you?” His heart was starting to palpitate wildly as clouded blue eyes lifted to meet his for a brief moment before ducking away.

“Yes.”

Sam sucked in a sharp breath. “Where’s Michael?”

Cas let out a small grunt. “Here. But he’s…occupied…fighting the Purgatory souls.”

Dean exchanged an alarmed look with Sam. He couldn’t believe it; Cas was back. Not only that, but he obviously knew about Michael possessing him. Things were far from okay, however, if Michael and the souls were still in play, just momentarily benched it sounded like. And Cas was looking awful—skin mottled and bleeding like pox pustules, dark circles under his eyes, and the way he could barely hold himself up. But Cas was _alive_ , and _here_ , which meant Dean still had a chance to fix this.

“Cas, can we put the souls back into Purgatory?” Sam asked urgently.

“I…” Cas shuddered. “I don’t know.” He sounded so broken and lost that Dean instinctively took a step forward, but Cas flinched back, nearly losing his grip on the door frame, which seemed to be the only thing holding him up. A lump of lead dropped into Dean’s stomach.

“If we go back to Crowley’s lab where the spell was cast, could we do it?” Sam pressed gently.

Dean saw Cas’s brow furrow, even though the angel kept his gaze locked on the floor. Maybe it was in an effort to keep the room from spinning, Dean wasn’t sure.

“Oh, would…the ingredients still be there?”

“Pretty sure.” Sam reached a hand out, and Cas curled in on himself. “Cas?” he called worriedly, not moving closer.

“We should hurry,” the angel ground out. “Michael could…resurface.”

That got rid of the last of Dean’s hangover, and he started shouting for Bobby.

“I’ll get the research we have,” Sam said. “You get Cas to the car.”

It was a good thing he’d been working on the Impala nonstop the past day, Dean thought as he moved toward Cas. Granted, they could have always taken one of Bobby’s junkers, but the Impala had the speed they needed at a time like this. And why was Dean trying to justify that he’d spent more time working on his car than looking for a way to help his best friend?

“Come on, Cas.” He reached out to grip the angel’s elbow, astonished by the tremors that were running through it. Cas’s whole body seemed to shiver as he pried himself away from the wall with a stagger. Dean slipped an arm around his lower back and began guiding him toward the door. Cas tried to resist, tried to walk on his own, but wasn’t having much success.

Dean pulled Cas’s arm over his shoulder, and nearly dropped the angel when he bumped against Cas’s sternum and felt something _writhe_ there. Cas leaned away from him. Dean wanted to ask, even though he really didn’t. So he settled for silence as he half-dragged Cas to the Impala.

The angel stumbled to catch himself against the car while Dean opened the back door. Then he helped ease Cas inside, getting an up-close glimpse of his face and neck, which looked as though the angel had been stricken with leprosy.

“Jeez, Cas, it’s like you’re falling apart.”

Cas grunted. “My vessel won’t hold the souls forever.”

Dean’s blood froze in his veins. “Okay, well, just hang on a little longer. We’re gonna put them back.” He cast a worried glance back at the house, mentally urging Sam and Bobby to hurry up. He had no idea how much time they had…or if Michael would rear his ugly head before they could get back to Crowley’s lab. They had to, though. Dean couldn’t lose Cas again.

“Just hang in there.”

* * *

Bobby had seen some shit in his time that had left the experienced hunter dumbstruck, but finding an ailing Castiel sitting in the backseat of the Impala after having gone off on a god-rampage definitely took the cake. Except, Bobby had to stop thinking of the enemy here as Cas, because it wasn’t. It was Michael. It was just a little hard to separate the two in his mind with Cas wearing a blood stained coat, plus Bobby had never met the douche archangel before, and he’d spent the last few weeks believing Cas—their Cas—had gone dark side. Which wasn’t fair to the angel who was obviously miserable, confused, and in a great deal of pain.

So Bobby had shoved whatever lingering doubts he had aside and climbed into the back next to Cas, while Dean and Sam slid into the seats up front. Then Dean gunned it back toward the lab.

After several minutes of silence, save the roaring of the Impala’s engine, Bobby finally cleared his throat to address the elephant in the car. “So when we put the Purgatory souls back, does Michael get thrown out too? ‘Cause that seems as good a place as any to stick ‘im.”

The boys exchanged a look up front that clearly said they hadn’t thought about it. Bobby resisted rolling his eyes.

“No,” Cas half-whispered from the seat next to him. “Michael isn’t one of them; he won’t be ejected.”

“So he’ll still be in you,” Sam said quietly.

Cas made a pained noise in the back of his throat and pressed his forehead against the window. Bobby’s stomach clenched with sympathy.

“All right, so what do we do about that?” he asked loudly, trying to distract Cas from whatever was going on inside him.

“Angels need permission to possess someone, right?” Sam spoke up after a minute. “Can’t you revoke it, Cas?”

Cas’s eyes opened to mere slits. “I am not…a vessel, in the traditional sense. Michael may have…found a way in when he was weaker, but now he’s stronger than me.”

“Would an exorcism work?” Dean asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.

“He’s not a demon.”

“Well dammit, what are we supposed to do?” he shouted.

Bobby’s jaw worked, because he was also not seeing many options.

The road rumbled beneath them for several moments of pregnant silence, which was finally broken by Cas’s soft voice.

“You’ll have to kill me.”

Bobby narrowed his eyes at the angel, and both boys whipped their heads around in shock.

“Michael will take control again once he’s no longer distracted by the Purgatory souls,” Cas continued. He shifted with a grimace, reaching into his coat to pull out a silver blade. Bobby couldn’t help the instinctive reaction to tense. But Cas just passed the sword over the seats to Sam, who simply stared at it dumbly. “You did it once, Sam; you can do it again.”

Sam’s face drained of all color, and Bobby thought for a serious moment that the boy was gonna be physically sick. Aw, hell, did Cas think when Sam stabbed him the kid had been gunning for Michael? Bobby wondered how much the angel knew now that he was back in control of himself.

“N-no Cas!” Sam stammered.

Castiel dropped his arm with the blade back to his lap, apparently too exhausted to hold it up very long. His head thunked wearily back against the window. “You have to. Michael will be…furious. He’ll kill you.”

Bobby furled his hands into fists. There had to be another way to stop the archangel without sacrificing Cas. Exorcisms wouldn’t work because Michael wasn’t a demon. So what ways were there to get rid of an angel…?

Bobby straightened. “Cas, can the angel banishing sigil be modified to send an angel _out_ of a vessel if it’s not their true one?”

Castiel frowned thoughtfully, while the boys cast him an odd look.

“What?” he groused at them. “You two idjits didn’t think I was paying attention back with all that ‘true vessel’ crap between you, Michael, and Lucifer? But what’s his name…” Bobby gestured vaguely to Cas.

“Jimmy,” Sam supplied.

“Okay, Jimmy is Cas’s true vessel, right? So if we can find a way to separate Michael from where he don’t belong…” He fixed Cas with an expectant glare. As far as he could see, this was their only option. Because if it didn’t work…then someone was gonna have to pick up that damn angel blade whether they liked it or not.

“Cas?” Dean asked tentatively, the trace of desperate hope in his voice enough to break Bobby’s heart, and dammit he was not a sentimental old fool.

“I…don’t know.” Castiel gasped then, arms tightening around his stomach as he bowed forward.

“Cas? Shit, is it Michael?” Dean exclaimed, cranking the wheel and nearly swerving them off the road. Bobby hit the back of Sam’s seat and swore. In hindsight, getting in the car like this was a pretty dangerous move.

“They’re still…fighting,” Cas panted, and a low moan escaped his lips. “Ripping…each other…apart.”

Translation: ripping Cas apart too. Bobby grabbed a memo pad from the floor of the Impala and pulled out a pencil, which he used to hastily scribble a banishing sigil. Then he scooted toward Cas and shoved the paper under his face.

“Focus, Cas. What do we have to do to tweak this?”

Cas turned his head slowly, and Bobby’s stomach lurched at the sickly blisters on his neck. The angel’s eyes were also bloodshot and clouded with pain. Bobby impatiently tapped the pencil against the memo pad. He needed to be tough to keep Cas engaged so the angel didn’t succumb to the pain and horror of whatever knock-down, drag-out was going on inside his body.

Cas squinted at the sketched sigil for a long time before he hesitantly took the pencil from Bobby and shakily began etching new lines and whorls. When Cas tried to erase some places and ended up tearing the paper from shaking so bad, Bobby took over, making adjustments as Cas directed. The hunter wasn’t a sigil master by any means, but he was good at detecting patterns, and he began to see the basic principle of what Cas was trying to accomplish.

The boys never said a word, and aside from the quiet murmurs between Bobby and Cas, and the angel’s pained whimpers, the rest of the ride was fraught with tense silence.

They finally pulled up in front of the lab, a place Bobby had hoped never to see again. The boys scrambled out of the car, Dean coming around to haul Cas out as well. Bobby tore the sheet of the final sigil from the pad and stuffed it in his pocket. They’d worked it out as best they could, and the only thing left to do was test it. But first, they had to get those souls back into Purgatory.

“Can’t we just banish Michael’s ass now?” Dean huffed as he and Sam half-carried Cas down the darkened corridors.

“No,” Cas wheezed. “If the sigil is incorrect, I could be banished as well, and Michael will certainly take over again.”

Dean grumbled under his breath, but didn’t argue. Nothing about this was simple, but they had a job to do. He and Sam eased Cas down on the floor to lean against an island counter while Bobby cleared some accoutrements off a steel slab and laid out the spell for the Purgatory ritual.

“What about the blood?” Sam asked.

They looked at Cas, whose forehead creased in intense thought. “There’s…a small jar…end of the hall,” he said, almost uncertainly. “S-supply closet.”

“Got it,” Sam said, and hurried off.

Bobby got everything else ready before turning back to Cas, and frowned at the trickle of blood coming out of his nose. Damn, they were running out of time.

“Dean,” Cas spoke up. “After the souls are gone and Michael…takes control. If the sigil doesn’t work, you have to…”

“No.”

Cas sighed. “Dean, you have to kill him.”

“Oh, I will. But I ain’t gonna do it when it’s gonna kill you too.” Dean was pacing the length of the lab, shoes slapping out a staccato rhythm on the tiles.

“You may not…have a choice,” Cas rasped, grimacing as a spasm rocked his frame.

“Not gonna happen,” Dean snarled. “Dammit, where’s Sam!”

Bobby didn’t say it aloud, but he was worried about the younger Winchester now that the damn wall had been torn down. Whatever had happened to the kid the last time they’d been here could flare up again.

“Go see what’s keeping him,” Bobby told Dean, who seemed all too happy to storm out of there. The older hunter went over to Cas then and crouched down beside him. “Hang in there. Just a couple of minutes.”

Cas closed his eyes and nodded.

Bobby was about to stand up again when a frail voice stayed him.

“Bobby, if the sigil doesn’t work…”

“It will.” Normally he wasn’t prone to impractical hope, but hell, how many Hail Marys had these boys pulled off? They could kick this in the teeth too.

There was a rustle of fabric, and a glint of silver caught Bobby’s eye. He stiffened as Cas withdrew his angel blade again, holding it out to Bobby with a trembling hand.

“Please,” Cas said softly, pleadingly. “If Dean can’t do it…” His words choked off with a strangled cry, and Cas nearly toppled over.

Bobby shot out a hand to steady him, squeezing his shoulder in an attempt to be reassuring, even as his confidence in their plan started to slip. Cas lifted his head, and there was such anguish in his gaze that it stole the breath from Bobby’s lungs. He’d seen Cas cold, calculated, aloof, and arrogant these past few months, but the vulnerability he showed now, the sheer panic and fear which kindled a memory for Bobby—several memories in fact, from back when the Apocalypse was under full swing—made the grizzly hunter realize how much it had _not_ been Cas he’d talked to in recent months. And Bobby understood in that moment what Cas really needed.

He met the angel’s imploring eyes and nodded firmly. “I won’t let that bastard hurt Dean or Sam.”

Cas held his gaze for a long moment, as though searching for the veracity of that promise, and then he relaxed. Yeah, Bobby would keep his word, but what he didn’t say so the angel wouldn’t argue was that he would do his damnedest to make sure that asshat Michael didn’t hurt Cas anymore either.

At the sound of returning footsteps, Bobby quickly stashed Cas’s angel blade in the back of his waistband, and fervently hoped the next time he pulled it out again would be to give it back to its rightful owner.

Dean stormed into the lab, the jar of blood in hand.

Bobby tensed. “Where’s Sam? It’s go time.”

“I don’t know,” Dean ground out, worry for his brother clearly written on his face, but he also cast a grief-stricken glance at Castiel too.

“All right, let’s hurry this up then. Go freshen up that paint job over there.”

Dean took the jar over to the rune already painted on the wall in dog’s blood, and proceeded to go over the lines with the proper ingredient.

“That’s good enough,” Bobby said when he’d touched up everything. It didn’t need to be thick. He reached down and hauled Castiel to his feet, bracing the angel when he swayed. “Okay, step right up, Cas.”

Dean set the jar on the floor and hurried to take Cas from Bobby and guide the angel forward. Bobby went around the steel slab and began to recite the spell. “ _Ianua magna purgatorii_ …” Over the deep words flowing from Bobby’s mouth, he distantly heard Cas apologize to Dean. And then Bobby rushed out the last phrase, and the rune on the wall began to glow.

Cas spread his arms, and suddenly a great torrent of bright light exploded from his chest to cascade through the portal. Bobby threw an arm up to shield his eyes, his ears roaring with the rush of wind. The flood of ejected souls seemed to go on forever, but finally the last stream shot out. The glowing rune on the wall dimmed to a charred outline, and Cas collapsed to the floor.

“Cas?” Dean darted forward and rolled the angel over. Cas’s arms flopped limply by his sides.

“Dean!” Bobby snapped. Dammit, that boy needed to keep his distance until they knew what they were dealing with.

“Cas?” Dean called again.

There was a startled gasp, and Bobby leaned over the slab to get a better look as Dean hauled Cas to his feet. The angel blinked dazedly for a moment, the decaying flesh on his face and neck apparently healed in an instant. Bobby saw the transition happen before Dean did, and distantly wondered how they could have missed it all this time.

A hardened glint filled Cas’s eyes, and the angel lashed a hand out to grab Dean by the throat. Bobby didn’t hesitate; he slammed his palm down on the sigil he’d prepared, and another bright light filled the room. Someone screamed, a horrible bellow of rage that turned into the painful shriek of a jet engine. Through the white haze of the nova, Bobby saw Cas’s form jerk, and a stream of blue light seemed to be ripped out of his mouth.

In the next moment, the light had winked out, and Cas was once again unconscious on the floor. Dean staggered back a step, rubbing his neck where Michael had grabbed him. Bobby cautiously moved around the slab and approached Cas, kneeling down and holding a hand over the angel’s mouth.

“Is he breathing?” Dean asked hoarsely.

_Did angels need to breathe?_ Bobby thought wryly, then checked for a pulse. “Yeah, seems to be alive.” They both waited for a prolonged beat, but Cas didn’t stir.

Dean shuffled forward, no longer looking eager to touch the angel. “How do we know if it worked?”

Bobby snorted. “I’m pretty sure I saw Michael’s ass get ripped outta here.”

“Yeah, me too. I mean…how do we know that Cas didn’t? What if…could this just be Jimmy?”

Bobby swallowed hard. _Balls_ , he hadn’t thought of that. “Let’s just get him home and figure it out then. And find Sam, would you! I can’t carry Feathers by myself.”

Dean jolted out of his daze, and after casting one last despondent look at his best friend, hurried down the hallway to find his missing brother. Which left Bobby with an unconscious and possibly empty angel vessel.

“You better be in there, Cas,” he muttered. Because he didn’t know if this family could take another blow.


	4. Broken Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some lines from episode 7x1; they're not mine.

Sam whirled at the sound of rusted hinges creaking, and his hand went to his hip where Ruby’s knife rested in his belt. Could demons or angels still be lurking around this place? He strained his ears, but didn’t hear anything more. After a long moment, Sam turned back to face the chamber he’d stepped into. Where was the damn supply closet? He’d gone down the hall like Cas said, and hadn’t he found the blood? He thought he had…but then somehow he’d gotten turned around. And he didn’t even have the jar anymore. ****

He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. Cas needed him, dammit! If his head was playing tricks on him because of the stupid wall… _Just pull yourself together!_ Sam snorted. Right, because that always worked.

Something skittered across the concrete, and Sam spun so hard it made him dizzy. “ _Dean?_ ” he hissed. He wanted to curse at his brother for sneaking up on him, but that would just alert Dean that something was wrong, and they could not afford the distraction. But when Dean didn’t show himself, Sam felt a tendril of ice slither down his spine. He should just get back. Now…which way had he been headed?

He turned into the adjacent laboratory, and came face to face with his worst nightmare.

Lucifer stood before him, smiling with Nick’s face. “Hi Sam.”

He sputtered, and took a halting step back. “You’re not here. You’re in Hell.”

Lucifer wagged a finger at him. “Now that, you’re right on.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam spotted curved metal barbs swinging from the ceiling, yet when he flicked his gaze straight on, they were gone. He shook his head firmly. “Meat hooks…chains…you. It’s not real. It’s just my brain leaking memories from the Cage ‘cause of the wall breaking down. That’s all.” _That’s all_.

Oh shit, he was going insane.

“Hmm, that’s very good, your little theory,” Lucifer hummed, and then shrugged blithely. “It’s wrong. Sam, this isn’t you going guano. Everything else is.”

“What?” _Dude, don’t you know you shouldn’t talk back to hallucinations?_

“Everything…” Lucifer replied with a smirk. He spread his arms to encompass the grungy room with its cracked tiles and moldy fixtures. “From the second you sprung out of that lock box.”

Sam’s breath froze in his lungs. “That’s impossible.”

Lucifer angled a forbearing look at him. “No, escaping was impossible. I have to say, I think this is my best torture yet—make you believe that you’re free and then…yank the wool off of your eyes.” He laughed. “You never left, Sam. You’re still in the Cage… With me.”

Lucifer surged forward then, and before Sam could react, the Devil had shoved him against the wall and wrapped a hand around his neck. Sam kicked and flailed and clawed at Lucifer’s arm, but the archangel’s hold was intractable.

“You’re not real,” Sam wheezed. Oh god, but his lungs burning and the sparks igniting in his brain certainly felt real… _No!_

“You’re still in my cell,” the Devil taunted. “You’re my bunkmate, buddy. Sam. Sam.”

Lucifer’s tone started to change, less high and sing-songy, and more deep and frantic.

“ _Sam! You hearing me?_ ”

Something pressed against Sam’s chest, and with that contact, the hand around his throat suddenly vanished. In the blink of an eye, Lucifer was gone and Dean was staring at him wide-eyed, inches from his face, hand pressed to Sam’s sternum. Sam gulped in a lungful of air.

“Whoa, look at me. Hey!”

“Dean?” Sam’s stomach clenched. Dean was real, Lucifer wasn’t. Or was it the other way around? He gave himself another sharp shake. _Dean was real_.

Dean’s expression scrunched up in distress. “We got to button this up, man,” he said, voice wavering slightly. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” He tugged at Sam’s sleeve. “Come on.”

Sam let his brother lead him out of the dingy lab and down the corridor like an errant child. When they reached the other lab where Purgatory had been opened and found Bobby kneeling next to an unconscious Cas, Sam felt guilt stab him through the chest.

“What happened?” he asked, voice coming out gruffer than he wanted.

“Purgatory souls are back where they belong,” Dean replied. “And Michael got blown back to Oz.”

“And Cas?”

Dean didn’t respond, and Sam flicked a worried look at Bobby.

“Not sure,” the older hunter admitted. “Just help me get him up and to the car. Panic room is probably the safest place for him.”

“Yeah, okay.” Except, when Sam stepped forward to help lift Cas, Dean cut him off and grabbed the angel’s arms instead. Sam opened his mouth to insist he was fine, but clamped it shut at the last second. Who was he kidding?

Bobby was giving them strange looks, but neither brother made a comment. Sam gathered up Bobby’s notes and stuffed them in the folds of his jacket; no sense leaving the pop Purgatory spell around for someone else to find. They got Cas to the car and then booked it back to Bobby’s. Sam kept twisting around in his seat to see if the angel was coming around, but as yet there were no signs, and Sam’s gut was starting to churn again.

“You saw how he was with all the souls in ‘im,” Bobby spoke up from the back. “Guy took a cosmic beating and probably just needs to recover.”

Sam glanced at Dean and saw his brother’s knuckles whitening around the steering wheel.

“And if Michael killed Cas the moment he took over again?” Dean said so low that Sam almost didn’t hear him.

Bobby let out an audible breath. “Just give it time.”

Right, time. Sam leaned his forehead against the window, relishing the touch of cold glass that seeped into his skin. Time could maybe make things better in Cas’s case. But in Sam’s, it would only make them worse.

They made it back to the salvage yard, but Cas still hadn’t regained consciousness, so the brothers carried him down to the panic room and laid him on the cot. The one Sam had occupied when he’d been trapped in his head. Now it was Cas’s turn.

Dean rubbed his face and then turned to walk out. Bobby had disappeared, mentioning something about strengthening the angel warding around the place.

Sam cast a regretful look at Cas before following. “Dean?”

Dean paused at the foot of the stairs, hand gripping the railing like a vice. Sam closed the distance between them, but didn’t attempt to reach out and offer his brother comfort. That wasn’t what Dean wanted at the moment.

“What happened back there, Sam?”

He held back a sigh. Great, Dean’s method of deflection was gonna put the spotlight on him instead. “Nothin’. I got a little lost, is all.”

Dean tossed his ‘don’t-bullshit-me’ look at Sam. “You were hallucinating. Stuff from the Cage, right?”

Sam shook his head, exhaustion creeping in, and he slumped against a support beam. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Dean snorted in disgust and turned away. “Not that bad? You looked like you were having a seizure standing up.”

“I snapped out of it, Dean.”

“And what about next time? Dammit, Sammy! You shouldn’t be going through this!”

Sam felt a stir of bitterness. No, he shouldn’t. He’d done the right thing, saved the world, and what had he gotten for it? But he immediately shook off that train of thought. Sam knew what he was sacrificing when he jumped into the Cage. Hell, he wasn’t even supposed to _get_ _out_. Cas had done that for him, and ended up suffering horribly for it. So Sam couldn’t complain if he ended up saddled with his own memories.

“Look,” he said. “I’m alive, and I’m not in Hell.” _You’re not_ , he mentally insisted. “So even if I’ve gotta deal with the Cage scars, it’s still better than _actually being_ _there_.”

Dean flashed him a look that said he wasn’t fully convinced.

“I’ll be okay, Dean. I’ll deal with it.” He’d overcome the addiction to demon blood; he could overcome this. Of course, one was a chemical problem and this was a seriously messed up psychological one…

Sam thunked his head against the wood at his back. He was so tired. “Dean, look, you don’t have to worry about me right now. I promise I’ll go get some rest, but you should sit with Cas. Someone should be there when he wakes up.”

Dean didn’t say anything for a long moment, but simply stared through the open door into the panic room. When he finally did speak, his voice came out hollow. “I just keep thinking about what Michael said, about letting Cas see those moments with the holy fire and…you know. I just…maybe Cas waking up and seeing me wouldn’t be the best thing for him right now.”

Sam’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, though I’d probably be a worse choice, considering I’m the one who stabbed him in the back.” And in spite of that, Cas had still come to them for help, had still answered Sam’s prayer.

“We thought Cas had gone off the reservation; you did what you had to,” Dean said automatically, always the consoling older brother.

Sam let out a humorless, self-derisive snort. “Did I? On some level, yeah, but…I was also angry, Dean. I think…a small part of me wanted Cas to suffer like he’d made me suffer.” Sam closed his eyes for a moment in grief.

“He’d just taken down your wall, Sam. Or, Michael did. You weren’t thinking straight.”

Sam opened his eyes and found Dean looking at him with similar anguish.

Dean shook his head. “What I did was worse. When you first got back from Hell and were acting all weird, I _knew_ something wasn’t right, and I chased down answers until we found out your soul was missing. But when Cas was acting like a dick, when we found out he was working with Crowley, I didn’t even once consider something was up. I just got pissed.” Dean ran a hand down his jaw. “Cas was my best friend, and I ignored him to the point…” He let out a shaky breath. “I couldn’t even tell his actions from Michael’s.”

Sam dropped his gaze to the floor, the silence hanging over them like a noxious shroud. “He still is your best friend,” he finally whispered. _And mine_. Sam looked up to find Dean’s eyes glistening. “And at least we have a chance to fix this.”

They both turned their heads toward the panic room, anxiously waiting for their angel to wake up.

* * *

Somehow, the feeling of surfacing from a sea of blackness was becoming familiar to Castiel. He didn’t move though, afraid of what he might find. Images of blood and death stirred in the depths of his memory from the last time he woke up dazed and confused. What had happened this time? Nothing good, judging by the ache pulsing throughout every inch of his body, not just his true form, but his vessel as well.

Wait, vessel…it was his again. There was no more raging deluge of voices and beings, no explosions of power as souls fought against each other. And most reassuring of all, there was no Michael. Overcome with relief, Castiel extended his senses outward, and felt the angel warding pressing in upon him. For a terrified moment, he thought he was a prisoner, the memory of holy fire and acrid smoke filling his mind. But then he heard quiet voices a distance away, and recognized the auras of Sam and Dean. He was safe.

Peeling his eyelids open, Castiel found himself facing the back wall of Bobby’s panic room. There were no flames, and the warding was heavily concentrated around the perimeter of Bobby’s salvage yard. So the Winchesters probably just wanted to make sure they were secure against Michael re-possessing him.

Castiel was about to try getting up, when the brothers’ muffled voices started to become distinct…and their words paralyzed him. They thought _he_ had opened Purgatory? So, they hadn’t known about Michael? But why…

Castiel’s heart seized—Sam’s wall was _gone_. All the horrors the younger Winchester had experienced in the Cage were now unleashed in his unprotected mind, and Castiel knew they would drive him insane. Michael had done that to Sam? Why? Out of spite?

_“A small part of me wanted Cas to suffer like he’d made me suffer.”_

_No_ … The Winchesters thought Castiel had taken down Sam’s wall, not Michael. It sounded as though they hadn’t even known about the archangel…but Sam’s prayer _had_ mentioned him. Castiel squeezed his eyes shut. There were obviously gaps in his memory, things Michael hadn’t wanted him to be aware of.

_“When we found out he was working with Crowley.”_

Working with Crowley? Castiel would never! So…had Michael…? Of course, how else could the souls have gotten inside him? _Michael_ had been working with Crowley, and Castiel had never realized… What else had the archangel done while possessing him?

And then Dean’s confession registered in Castiel’s mind. _“I couldn’t even tell his actions from Michael’s.”_ ‘His actions.’ Castiel’s actions. Crowley, Purgatory, Sam’s wall, they believed Castiel had been behind them all.

His head reeled from the revelation, even as it clove his heart in two. His friends believed he had done all those terrible things—believed him _capable_ of it without a second thought.

_“Did you bring me back soulless on purpose?”_

They’d left him in that ring of holy fire, and at the time Castiel had thought it was due to that accusation alone. But maybe it was because of other things too. And the only reason he must have escaped was because of Michael’s deal with the demons. It was only sometime after that they’d apparently found out about Michael…

Castiel hadn’t felt this physically sick since he’d consumed a pan of raw beef under Famine’s influence. He lay on the cot perfectly still, eyes squeezed shut and trying to fight the urge to expel his guts, or what was left of them. His head was pounding, and he suddenly yearned for the blissfulness of oblivion again.

He wasn’t sure how long it took before his heart rate and breathing came back under control, but he was greeted with heavy silence. He opened his eyes, shamefully hoping the Winchesters had left. But soft footsteps on concrete alerted him that he was wrong.

Dean came around the end of the cot, and pulled up short as his eyes met Castiel’s. “Whoa, hey man, you’re awake.” Dean stepped closer, but hesitated, one hand reaching up to rub the back of his head. “Um, it is you, Cas, right? Not…not Jimmy?”

Castiel furrowed his brow. Jimmy? Oh, the sigil to banish an angel from a vessel. That’s how they’d gotten rid of Michael. “Yes, it’s me,” he said around a parched throat, but he didn’t ask for something to drink. He slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position, wincing as every minute movement sent daggers through his spine. “Michael’s gone,” he felt the need to add, to assure Dean he was no longer a danger—no longer a threat to them.

Dean let out a breath of relief. “Good, that’s great.” He frowned as he studied Castiel. “How you doing?”

He felt as though someone had taken a shredder to his internal organs, a drill to his head, and a blowtorch to his mouth and throat, yet Castiel didn’t say any of that. The question was probably meant more out of politeness or Dean’s desire to fill the silence than genuine concern.

“I will be fine,” he said instead.

Dean shifted his weight awkwardly, as though he didn’t know what to say next.

“And I promise I’ll fix Sam’s wall when I’m strong enough.”

“Sam’s wa—” Dean blanched. “You, uh, remember stuff?”

“No.” No, there was still a wall in his mind, keeping him in the dark about what Michael had done. “I heard you.”

Dean swore softly. “Um, how much?”

“Enough,” he replied bitterly. He wasn’t even fully sure who he was angry with. The Winchesters for doubting him? He couldn’t really blame them though; who would think an angel being possessed was even possible? Still, the fact that they had so easily believed he would betray them, after everything they’d been through together… There were two things in this world Castiel had ever had absolute faith in—God, who turned out to be a cosmic disappointment, and then the Winchesters, who had filled that hole in Castiel’s heart when his heavenly family had cast him out.

And here he was again. After trying to do the right thing by saving Sam, his family had once again turned on him because he’d messed up, so caught up in arrogance and vanity after being resurrected that he failed to realize he’d raised the _wrong_ soul. Everything Michael had done was because of Castiel’s grave mistake. He was a fool, and had no one to blame but himself.

Dean held a hand out helplessly. “Cas, I’m so sorry I didn’t realize what was happening sooner.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Castiel hollowly echoed his inner thoughts. He swallowed, the burn in his throat making it uncomfortable to talk. “When…how did you find out about Michael?”

Dean looked away, aura radiating guilt. “He told us, right after he killed Raphael. Bastard was positively gloating.”

Castiel stiffened. Raphael was dead? Then what had been Michael’s goal? Why had he taken those souls and gone to slaughter a bunch of humans? What had all this been _for_? Castiel had so many questions, but he didn’t want to ask Dean. He wasn’t sure he’d get a straight answer from the Winchester on everything anyway. No, he had to figure out another way to make sense of the mess in his head.

“I need to rest now,” he said abruptly, and lay back down on the cot.

Dean gave him an anguished look. “Cas…”

“The sooner I recover my strength, the sooner I can fix Sam,” he cut the hunter off. And as Castiel knew would happen, Dean clamped his mouth shut at that.

“Sure, Cas. Take it easy.” He left then. Castiel supposed there was small comfort that Dean didn’t lock the panic room door behind him on his way out. Was it a gesture of trust? Or something the hunter had to force himself to do, against his instincts?

Gazing at the concrete walls streaked with anti-demon, anti-evil, protective, and concealment warding, Castiel’s chest constricted. He had once called this place sanctuary, and he supposed with an ex-god archangel probably out for revenge, this house was the safest place for him to hide. Yet the things that had made it… _home_ , before, were nothing more than broken pieces on a scuffed floor. When Castiel instinctively reached out to sense the Winchesters, whom he’d always taken comfort from in the past, his heart quailed with the knowledge of what he’d done—and the terror of what he still did not know the full truth of. Castiel curled up on his side and stared at the wall. He had never felt so alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Cas. :-( I promise to fix it!


	5. Walls Come Tumbling Down

Dean stared morosely at his untouched beer. He felt like shit that Cas had overheard him and Sam talking outside the panic room. They’d thought he’d been out cold, and no normal person would’ve been able to hear them that far anyway! ‘Course, Cas was a friggin’ angel.

Dean’s gut twisted as he remembered the devastated look on Cas’s face when the angel had asked how long the Winchesters had known about Michael. _We didn’t. I didn’t, not until the bastard decided to announce it_. He should have stuck around to set the record straight right then, but dammit, Dean was being a coward. He didn’t want to face his mistakes in all this, didn’t want to face the shattered look in Cas’s eyes. After Sam was better, he told himself. Then he’d sit down and have the damn chick-flick moment that he owed the angel.

Sam had gone to bed shortly after that unfortunate talk, and had been asleep for hours now, so Dean hadn’t had a chance to tell his brother about Cas overhearing. Not that he wanted to; Sam had enough guilt heaped on his shoulders to begin with, not to mention the Cage scars. _Which Cas can fix_. That alone made Dean think that maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay. The world was relatively safe again, and sure, Michael was out there somewhere, but they just needed to take one thing at a time.

Dean knocked back a swig of his now tepid beer. It was getting late, and he should probably wake Sam soon for some dinner.

A creak on the stairs alerted him to someone coming up from the basement, and there was only one possibility for who. Cas cautiously approached the kitchen. He’d managed to get rid of the blood stains on his coat—thank god for that—and was looking marginally better. Dean tried his best to give the angel a warm smile.

“Hey, Cas.”

“Dean. I’d like to fix Sam’s wall now.”

He swallowed hard, attempting to tamp down the ping of excitement. “You sure you’re ready?” As much as he wanted Sam fixed ASAP, Dean didn’t want to push Cas before he was strong enough.

Cas nodded, looking over into the den where Bobby was passed out on the couch with a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the floor. “The sooner the better.”

Dean couldn’t argue with that. Abandoning his beer, he gestured for Cas to follow him upstairs to Sam’s room. Dean felt like he should say something, but any attempt to form words died on his tongue. Maybe they could just put all this behind them without rehashing it. He’d definitely prefer that.

When they reached Sam’s door, Dean heard muffled sounds coming from inside, and his pulse spiked. He shoved the door open to find Sam twisting under a quilt, face screwed up in pain.

Dean surged forward and gripped his brother by the shoulders. “Sam, wake up. It’s just a dream.” It took another rough shake before Sam jolted awake, eyes wide and not quite focusing. “Whoa, easy there,” Dean said as softly as he could. “You all right?”

Sam blinked at him, then over his shoulder at Cas. Rubbing his face vigorously, he sat up to lean against the headboard. “Sorry, was I yelling?”

“Nah, but you slept through dinner and I figured you should eat soon.” Dean hesitated. “Was it…?”

“I don’t know, maybe,” Sam said a little too quickly. “What’s up?”

Cas stepped forward then, only to stop and shift his weight nervously. “I came to fix the wall, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Oh, you- can you do that?”

“Yes. If I may…?” The uncertain look Cas gave both of them made Dean’s throat constrict. Cas had never been so damn _careful_ around them before. Was he worried they were afraid of him? Or was he afraid of them after the holy fire and getting stabbed in the back?

“Yeah, sure,” Sam said, scooting to the edge of the bed eagerly. He’d probably noticed Cas’s reaction as well, and was trying to reassure the angel. Something Dean really should be finding a way to do. Even with Sam’s agreeability, Cas still hesitated before coming closer and reaching out two fingers to Sam’s temple. Sam didn’t even flinch, the champ.

Dean held his breath though as Cas stayed in that position for several long moments. Taking down the wall had been instantaneous, and Dean had supposed it’d be just as quick to put it back up. Was something wrong? Was Cas not up to power yet? Could the wall _not_ be fixed?

Cas’s face was pinched in deep concentration, while Sam’s facial muscles only ticked here and there. He didn’t seem to be in any pain, but was that a good thing or bad thing? Dean clenched his fists, resisting the urge to interrupt and demand what was going on. _Just let Cas work_.

At long last, Cas lowered his arm, and Sam opened his eyes.

“Well?” Dean pressed, glancing back and forth between them impatiently.

“The wall is restored,” Cas said.

Dean raised his brows at Sam. “How do you feel?”

“Okay, good.” Sam shrugged. “I mean, I guess I don’t feel much different. But I shouldn’t have any more hallucinations, right?” He looked at Cas with barely concealed hope. He may have tried to hide how serious the hallucinations were, but Dean wasn’t an idiot. He had his own memories from Hell.

“No,” the angel confirmed. “But…there might be nightmares from what you’ve already remembered.”

Sam nodded as though he expected that. “Nightmares are nothing new. Thanks, Cas.”

Cas lowered his gaze to the floor. “I’m so sorry, Sam, for what you had to go through.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Sam finally got to his feet and looked as though he might have tried to hug the angel, but Cas backed up a step out of reach. Sam’s expression fell to that of a kicked puppy’s.

“This never would have happened if I’d properly brought your soul back from Hell.”

“Michael said he did a damn good impression,” Dean felt obligated to say, though it didn’t come out as comforting as he’d intended. He’d been pissed when he’d thought Cas had been careless about raising Sam without his soul. Now that he knew Cas had been tricked? Well, maybe he was still a little disappointed his super-powered ally had been so easily duped.

Cas wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Still, it was my mistake that caused all this. I…I will do everything I can to fix it.”

“You just did, Cas,” Sam said, and shifted as though to once again try reaching out.

“I need to rest some more,” Cas said abruptly, and turned toward the door.

Dean narrowed his eyes. Had Cas jumped the gun on his strength? But he didn’t look too bad. Tired, maybe… _beaten_. Dean shook that image off.

“You can take my bed,” Sam offered. “I just slept most of the day away.”

“No, the…panic room is probably best.”

Dean frowned. _For who?_ he wanted to ask, but didn’t. He just watched Cas duck out of the room faster than Dean ran from chick-flick moments.

Sam sighed heavily. “He can barely stand to be in the same room as me.”

Dean cringed. “It’s not that, it’s…Cas overheard us downstairs, after we brought him here.”

Sam’s brow furrowed for a split moment before his eyes flew wide. “What, everything?”

Dean shrugged. “Most of it, I think. He hasn’t been too chatty after waking up.” _So go talk to him_ , part of him urged. _Later_ , another part responded. “He, uh, asked me when we found out about Michael.”

Sam sank back onto the bed. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” Dean eyed his little brother carefully. “So, you sure you’re okay?”

Sam angled a wry look at him. “The only way to know for sure is if I go a whole day without any hallucinations.”

Dean’s mouth tightened. And would Sam be honest about that?

“Dean, come on, you don’t doubt Cas when he said he’d fixed it, do you?”

“No,” he scowled. “I’m just worried, okay?”

Sam’s expression softened. “I’m good now, I swear. But, um, we should go talk to Cas.”

Dean’s guard immediately went up, and dammit yes, he was a friggin’ coward. “Later. He needs to rest and you need to eat. So come on.”

Sam shot him a classic bitch-face, and then shook his head in exasperation as he got to his feet and headed for the stairs.

They’d just gotten to the kitchen and Dean had opened the fridge to see what he could make, when Bobby’s yelling echoed up from the basement. Dean didn’t even bother closing the refrigerator door before bolting toward the stairs and down to the panic room. Was Michael back? Had the archangel tricked them and never left Cas in the first place?

Sam was on his heels, and they both skidded to a stunned stop at the threshold when they spotted Cas on the floor having what looked like a grand mal seizure. Bobby was trying to hold him down by the shoulders, though not with much luck.

“Stop gawking and get in here!” he snapped at them.

Dean jerked out of his stupor and shot into the room. He dropped to the floor and grabbed Cas’s legs, while Sam came around to brace Cas’s head. Blood was pouring from the angel’s nose to smear down his mouth and chin.

Dean’s heart leaped into his throat. “What’s happening?”

“How the hell should I know?” Bobby retorted. “I heard a noise and came down to find him like this.”

“Cas!” Dean called desperately. “Is it Michael?”

Cas made a choking sound in the back of his throat. “No, Balthazar…Rachel…please no.”

Balthazar? The Winchesters hadn’t seen that douchebag since he’d agreed to help them stop Cas… Not Cas, _Michael_. What if Michael had caught him? And Rachel, why did that name sound familiar?

Sam shot him a horrified look. “Shit, I think he’s remembering.”

“Remembering what?” Dean asked.

Cas let out a strangled sob. “No, not Sam.”

“Everything! Michael said he put up a wall, but if it’s gone…” Sam paled, and Dean could see in his eyes the question of whether fixing his wall had somehow weakened Cas’s.

Dean’s blood ran cold, and he shifted from holding Cas’s legs to grabbing him by the lapels and jerking him upright. “Cas! Wake up, dammit!”

Sam and Bobby shouted in protest, but Dean just shook Cas again. His seizure started to diminish to small tremors running through his limbs, and finally the angel’s eyelids cracked open, eyes glassy.

“I’m so sorry, Dean,” he rasped.

“Dammit, Cas, if you weren’t strong enough to fix Sam, you should have waited!”

Cas shook his head. “I needed to know. The walls…were similar. After fixing Sam’s, I knew how to…” His breath hitched, and he squeezed his eyes closed again. “Bobby, I’m so sorry about Eleanor.”

Dean’s heart thundered against his rib cage and he swore viciously. Son-of-a-bitch was intentionally doing this? “Cas, stop! You’re hurting yourself!” Or was the damn angel going to kill himself by messing with Michael’s mental block? Sam’s wall was built for protection, but they had no idea what kind of malicious fail-safes Michael had installed.

Cas’s eyelids slid open again, and the amount of anguish there stole the oxygen from Dean’s lungs. “I needed to know why…”

Why what? Why Michael had possessed him? Why Cas had nearly died? Or more likely why the Winchesters had written him off as evil without a second look. Dean felt as though he’d been punched in the gut.

A shudder rippled through Cas, and he fell limp in Dean’s arms.

After a prolonged moment, Bobby spoke up gruffly, “Let’s get him off the floor.”

Together, they lifted Cas from the cold concrete and back onto the cot. He looked even worse than when they’d first brought him back, his coat covered in blood once more. Dean gazed down at the angel. He knew his negligence was responsible for this, responsible for how broken his best friend looked right then. And he didn’t see any way to possibly fix it.

Dean turned and walked out of the panic room.

* * *

Sam watched helplessly as Dean left, knowing his brother would probably go drown his sorrows in alcohol rather than deal with things. It was how Dean coped—or didn’t—and Sam wanted to stop him, wanted to call him back because dammit, Cas was a wreck and needed them. But Sam didn’t say a word.

Bobby gave him a long-suffering look. “I’ll take care of that idjit. You make sure this one doesn’t keep poking at the damn wall.”

Sam glanced down sadly at Cas, and nodded. After Bobby left, he grabbed a bottle of water from the shelf in the corner and poured some onto the bandana from his back pocket, which he used to gently wipe away the blood on Cas’s face. Then he pulled a chair up to sit vigil over the unconscious angel.

It actually didn’t take long for Cas to come around again. His face scrunched up as he clawed his way back to consciousness, blinking blearily at his surroundings.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam said softly.

“Sam,” he croaked. “I’m sorry, so sorry…”

Sam’s gut churned, and he reached out to squeeze Cas’s forearm. “Don’t. It wasn’t you. _None_ of it was you.”

“Are you sure?” Cas half-whispered. “Dean couldn’t tell. You did believe I was working with Crowley, that I’d lied to you, that I—” His voice choked off, and he turned his head away.

Sam felt the fissure in his heart crack further. “I’m sorry, Cas. You’re right, I wasn’t paying attention. We weren’t paying attention. We let you down and I will never be able to make up for that. But _please_ don’t scratch the wall. We both know how bad that can get.”

“I need to know.”

“No you don’t!” Sam sucked in a sharp breath. “Not if it causes you more pain.”

Cas was silent for a long moment before he moved his head back to meet Sam’s gaze. “Because it causes me pain? Or you and Dean?”

Sam bit his lip. Yeah, that’s why Dean was hiding. Sam was ashamed of his actions over the past year, and maybe some part of him also wished things could be simpler if Cas just didn’t remember all the ways the Winchesters had betrayed him.

Cas broke eye contact again. “You wanted to know what you’d done when you were soulless.”

Sam grimaced. That wasn’t fair…because Cas had a point. He swallowed hard, not liking this one bit and resenting Dean a little for leaving him to do it. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know, Cas,” he said quietly. “At least everything from our end that we know about. But you have to promise to leave Michael’s wall alone. We…we almost lost you.” _In more ways than one_.

After a prolonged beat, Cas slowly nodded and pushed himself into a sitting position, shifting his legs over the side of the cot. Sam handed him the bottle of water before he started from the beginning, telling him everything they’d gone through together over the past year. Cas actually did remember most of it, which meant it _had_ been him when they’d dealt with the Heavenly weapons, when they’d tracked down Crowley to demand he give Sam his soul back, and when they’d hunted Eve in Oregon. But it quickly became apparent that while Cas had mostly been with them, Michael had been popping up to manipulate things his way.

Cas truly believed he’d burned Crowley’s bones, but Michael must have made the switch. And Cas now wondered whether Michael had asked Balthazar to un-sink the Titanic and change fate just to win a few thousand souls. Cas closed his eyes in anguish at Balthazar’s name, and Sam almost asked what had happened to the other angel, but decided against it. Based on Cas’s reaction, the smarmy dick was probably dead, and Sam didn’t need Cas poking at the wall for details.

He didn’t remember torturing that hybrid monster for information on Eve, or Eleanor. He didn’t know how he got out of the ring of holy fire when the Winchesters had left him there, nor did he remember healing Lisa. Which was weird, because that seemed like something Cas would do. Although, erasing Lisa’s and Ben’s memories, while in one way was protecting them, was also a cruel blow to Dean. So in that sense, Sam could see how Michael had been behind it. And by the tightness in Cas’s jaw, he’d deduced the same.

Cas stared at his hands in his lap. “Why did I never see it?”

“He was messing with your head, Cas, of course you couldn’t.” And Sam was beginning to accept that there was no way he and Dean could have seen it either. At least not until some of the bigger stuff. That they still needed to be accountable for.

Sam rested his arms on his thighs and leaned forward. “Cas, I’m sorry I stabbed you in the back. Literally and figuratively.”

Cas stared at the wall. “Michael needed to be stopped.”

“That doesn’t make it right. And I’m not just sorry for that. I’m sorry for how we treated you. You were fighting a war, and we kept calling you to help with our problems, never once asking how we could help you.”

“You helped,” Cas interjected softly.

“And bitched about it because we’d been dragged into it by someone else, usually your enemies.”

“I’m sorry.”

Sam shook his head sharply. “You don’t have to apologize, Cas. My point is, even if Michael had never been in the picture, we still treated you like crap. Family’s not supposed to do that.”

Sam watched Cas’s shoulders tremble with taut tension. He’d interlocked his fingers, knuckles white to the point he could have crushed all the bones in one hand if not for angelic immunity to such trivial injuries. Then Cas gasped, and bowed forward, shooting a hand up to clutch his head.

“Cas?” Sam grabbed him by the shoulders. “What’s wrong? Dammit, you agreed not to touch the wall!” Or was it coming down anyway because Cas had already messed with it?

Cas shook his head and ground out, “Not that. Angel radio.”

Sam stiffened. “What about it?”

“A universal transmission just went out…Michael went on a rampage in Heaven. He destroyed thousands of angels.”

_Thousands of angels? Shit_. “I’m sorry, Cas,” Sam whispered. Angels may have been mostly arrogant dickheads from what Sam and Dean had seen, but they were still Cas’s brothers. And forgetting that had helped lead them down the road they were now on.

Cas’s shoulders were rigid under Sam’s gentle hold. “The others managed to finally stop him and cast him out.”

So the megalomaniac was now running around down on earth? “You think he’s gonna be a problem?” Michael had been in Cas’s head, which meant he knew everything about the Winchesters—including where to find them.

Cas straightened, taking deep breaths with what looked like a lot of effort, and he was a shade paler than he’d been a moment ago. “Michael is not used to not getting his way,” he said carefully. “First the Apocalypse was thwarted and he ended up in the Cage, and now you’ve dethroned him from playing God.”

Great, so the Winchesters were going to be on someone’s Most Wanted list again. At least Michael wasn’t juiced up on invincible soul power anymore, and was just a regular ole archangel.

“We’ll deal with it,” Sam said.

Cas, however, pinched his mouth into a tight line, not seeming convinced.


	6. Blind Faith

 

Sam left to inform Dean and Bobby about Michael. Castiel opted to stay in the panic room, his own self-imposed exile of sorts. He wasn’t needed upstairs since he had no further insight into what had happened in Heaven other than what he’d told Sam. And he needed to think, to process everything he’d learned.

He’d killed Balthazar. And Rachel. His siblings, his _friends_. They’d trusted him, supported his cause to fight against Raphael even when it seemed to be a losing battle. And just like with the Winchesters, they had died believing that their brother, that _Castiel_ , had betrayed them.

He normally didn’t need to breathe, but the pressure in his chest was building to the point he thought his vessel’s lungs might burst. There were hundreds of deaths on Castiel’s hands, and it didn’t matter if Michael had been the one wielding them at the time. The archangel had been wearing Castiel’s face, and now with his rampage in Heaven…the other angels would probably assume Castiel had been in league with Michael all along. He could never go home.

Sam came back not much later, asking if he needed anything. Castiel declined, and insisted Sam get his own rest to recover from the trauma of having the wall down, however temporarily. Even though Sam looked reluctant, he thankfully departed, leaving Castiel to contemplate his situation long into the night.

Dean never came down. Castiel was both grateful and hurt, a paradox that left him confused and irritated. He knew Sam felt remorse over everything, and didn’t blame Castiel for not raising his soul, or for unleashing Hell in his mind. Dean probably did though. Hurting Sam was an unforgivable offense to the older Winchester. Castiel had tried to fix it by repairing Sam’s wall, but he still sensed Dean’s anger when he’d last been in the panic room. There was guilt too, but Dean always did tend to feel responsible for things outside his control.

Castiel briefly considered seeking out Dean instead, but decided against it. What was there to say, anyway? Their friendship had started to deteriorate long before Michael committed his egregious attacks against the Winchesters. Dean had always demanded much of Castiel, which he had always been willing to give. He’d challenged Raphael to keep the brothers safe from reliving the Apocalypse, and to protect his other brothers and sisters who’d been deceived for so long. Yes, it had been difficult splitting his attentions, but he’d tried to give his all to the two families he cared about more than anything. And in the end he’d lost them both.

He should leave. He no longer belonged here…but there was nowhere to go. All the friends he’d had left were dead. Besides, Michael was still a threat to the Winchesters, which made Castiel hesitant to leave them, even if staying made him feel like someone was starting to carve out his chest cavity with an angel blade. It would never make up for things, but Castiel should stay and protect the brothers. Even if he stood little chance against an outraged archangel.

When dawn came, and Castiel sensed a presence pushing at the wards, he got up without a sound and finally left the panic room. Bobby had left his angel blade on a stack of boxes, so Castiel took it back, slipping it up his sleeve where it belonged. Both boys were upstairs asleep, but Bobby was sitting at his desk in the den, and looked up at Castiel’s appearance.

“You goin’ somewhere?” the hunter asked, seemingly disinterested if not for the hard edge to his tone.

“A walk,” Castiel replied, equally gruff.

Bobby scrutinized him for a long moment. “Don’t go past the wards,” he mumbled, and returned to his book. Castiel wouldn’t need to.

The salvage yard was oddly tranquil under the gray pall of the morning hours, belying the danger that lurked upon its perimeter. Castiel wove through the junk cars, remembering nights he had stood upon one of the piles to watch the stars, or when Sam and Dean had sat on one of the hoods, drinking beers and joking as though the Apocalypse were not going on around them. Sanctuary, that’s what this place was for them, despite its run-down, dilapidated exterior. Balthazar had mocked him for feeling the same sentiment, but the jibes hadn’t bothered Castiel at the time. Now, though, he realized it had always been a reflection of how far he’d fallen.

His weapon slipped into his hand once more as he rounded the last stack of old rusted bumpers and found a man standing at the fence line, dragging an angel blade across the wood to disable the sigils Bobby had carved there. The man paused, and lifted his eyes to meet Castiel’s.

“Michael,” he said, ashamed of the slight tremor in his voice. He had always held a certain amount of awe and reverence for the eldest archangel, but his recent time as Michael’s puppet had turned it into a sickening fear. Still, he would not falter.

The archangel resumed desecrating the warding, though his gaze didn’t waver. Dark eyes stood out on a pale face pockmarked with white blisters and peeling flesh. The vessel he’d taken wouldn’t last long, as there were few who could contain the might of an archangel.

“Castiel,” he spoke, deceptively calm. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to find you here. You always were like the stray puppy who goes back to its owner no matter how many times it gets kicked.”

Castiel ignored the insult, and prepared to respond with one of his obstinately rebellious declarations. But instead, his voice came out hoarse with a desperate question: “Why? Why did you do all this?”

There was a flash of darkness in Michael’s eyes. “Because Father abandoned us. Because he punished me for being the _good_ son. While you, the rebel, were brought back to life _twice_.” He spat the last part, and swung his legs over the fence, the first level of warding penetrated.

Castiel forced himself to stand his ground, not raising his angel blade yet. “And our brothers and sisters in Heaven that you just slaughtered? What was their crime?”

Michael sneered. “Blind faith.”

Castiel finally saw the madness in his brother’s eyes, an insanity that not even Lucifer had possessed, though the Devil had undoubtedly stoked it during their time in the Cage together.

“I did not think an angel could manage to fall farther than me,” Castiel found himself saying.

The air crackled, and thunder rumbled high in the sky. “I was pushed.”

“I suppose you’re here now for revenge.”

Michael’s face cracked into a grin. “I’m here to take what’s been rightfully mine from the start.”

Castiel tensed. He hadn’t expected that, but given the state of Michael’s temporary vessel, he should have guessed. “You are not taking Dean Winchester. I won’t let you.”

“Oh, I am, Castiel. And then I’m going to use his hands to rip you to pieces.” Michael lunged, and Castiel barely brought his sword up in time to block. Metal clanged with a resounding echo of thunder.

* * *

Dean woke with a start at something soft and pliable smacking him in the face. “What the hell,” he muttered, shooting upright and throwing an arm up against a second blow.

Sam stood at the edge of his bed, offending pillow in hand. “You need to talk to Cas.”

Dean growled his response, and scooted off the other side. “I will.”

“ _Now_ , Dean. If we’d talked to him sooner he might not have nearly given himself an aneurysm trying to remember!” Sam threw the pillow on the mattress.

Dean shot his brother a baleful glare. As if talking about all the shit they’d just gone through would have stopped Cas from doing that. _Maybe if you had tried_ …

“Dean,” Sam pleaded. “Not talking things out is how we lost touch with Cas in the first place. If we hadn’t…maybe we would have figured out about Michael sooner.”

“He’s the one who ignored me for a year!”

Sam just sighed and shook his head. “I told Cas to take care of you, before I said yes to Lucifer. I made you promise to go live a normal life. Between that and Raphael trying to restart the Apocalypse…I think Cas was just trying to keep his promise to me, Dean. The only way he knew how.”

Dean’s throat constricted, and he turned away so Sam wouldn’t see the roiling emotions he could barely keep in check. Why couldn’t Cas have just been the friend he’d needed? He’d lost Sam, and was trying to live the apple-pie life but it had all been a lie from the start. Dean was wretchedly and irreparably broken in ways Lisa and Ben could never understand, but Cas did. Cas had never judged him for his failings. Then when the angel had finally reappeared, Dean decided to give him a taste of his own medicine. And Cas, the idiot who didn’t understand the subtleties of human emotion, had missed the reason.

“I’m pretty sure Cas is blaming himself,” Sam went on. “We went over things, and he _was_ with us for most of it.” He took a deep breath. “Dean, if we don’t face this, I’m afraid we’re gonna lose him. For good.”

Well, that carved out a pit in Dean’s stomach. His little brother sure knew how to push the right buttons. Grumbling, he slipped his shoes on and headed for the door. His footsteps fell heavily on the stairs, and he hated that going to talk to his best friend felt like an inmate’s walk to the execution chamber. Just as he turned to head down to the basement, Sam right behind, a voice stopped him cold.

“He’s not there.”

Dean pushed past Sam and into the den. “What do you mean?”

Bobby thrust his chin toward the door. “Went for a walk.”

Dean’s heart stuttered. What if Cas decided to fly off before they had a chance to talk? He might never come back. A sickening feeling settled in Dean’s gut at the thought of fruitlessly praying to Cas every night for another year, or longer even. And this time it would have been Dean who’d driven him away. Dammit, Sam was right; he shouldn’t have put this off.

He barged out the door without another word, and immediately shivered at the chill wind gradually picking up. He didn’t see Cas.

Sam appeared at his shoulder. “I’ll take this way,” he offered, and set off around the south end of the salvage yard.

With no other recourse, Dean took the north. He distantly wished he’d grabbed a jacket. What was with the weird weather anyway? Thunder rumbled, promising rain, and Dean started grumbling about the possibility of getting wet while searching for the wayward angel. But then another sound carried on the wind, a strident screech that sounded eerily familiar. He paused to listen before it hit him. Blades.

Dean bolted toward the edge of the yard where it was coming from, cursing that he didn’t have any weapons. Who the hell would be attacking them here anyway? His gut told him he knew damn well who, something he was not happy to confirm when he careened around a pile of cars and skidded to a stop. Cas was fighting a guy slightly taller than him, both wielding angel blades. The intruder looked like Cas had when the Purgatory souls had been eating him alive. A vessel unable to hold that much power.

Dammit, they should have been preparing for Michael to make a comeback. Dean watched helplessly as Cas and the archangel slashed and parried, celestial alloy glinting like lightning streaks. Cas had a small cut above his left brow, while Michael’s right sleeve had a tear in it. He seemed slightly off his game, maybe from being cut off or in a dying vessel, but it only made him evenly matched with Cas.

Dean frantically looked around for a weapon. A tire iron wouldn’t do much, dammit. He briefly considered cutting his hand on the rusted metal and drawing an angel banishing sigil, but that would send Cas away too. And what if he never came back? Shit, he should have paid more attention to that tweaked sigil, ‘cause it was obvious this poor bastard wasn’t Michael’s true vessel either.

“Dean, I’m so glad you could make it,” Michael called out.

Cas whipped his gaze to the side, eyes wide with horror. That split second cost him. Michael lunged and grabbed Cas’s sword hand, twisting until it cracked. His fingers spasmed open and the sword thunked on the ground. Cas grunted and tried to wrench away, but Michael spun around, pinning Cas back against his chest. The archangel whipped his own blade up and pressed the tip just under Castiel’s clavicle.

Dean had taken a step forward, but now froze. Every muscle in his body screamed at him to do something, even though his brain knew he was desperately outmatched.

“Let’s get right to the _point_ , shall we?” Michael said, digging the tip of the angel blade into Cas’s chest.

Cas sucked in a sharp breath, but didn’t let any other sound of pain escape. The look of terror he directed at Dean didn’t seem to be for himself though.

“Say yes to being my vessel.”

Dean went rigid. “ _What?_ ”

“You heard me,” Michael snarled. “Say yes right now or Castiel dies.”

Dean’s heart thundered in his chest as blood roared in his ears. “You’ll kill him anyway,” he lobbed back, desperate to buy some time. Sam was out in the yard somewhere. Maybe he’d heard the fight and gone for some weapons.

Michael’s lip curled up in a sneer. “True. But it can be the difference between quick, or slow and agonizing.” He twisted the blade like a manual screwdriver, and there was a flicker of bluish-white light as it pierced flesh. Cas bit his lip to keep from crying out.

“Don’t…Dean,” he gasped.

“By all means,” Michael drawled. “Don’t say yes. Then I get to spend more time carving Castiel up into little tiny pieces. Sammy will be next. Think he’ll enjoy reliving all those delicious torments my brother visited upon him while in the Cage? And when we’re done up here, I’ll send his soul right back to the Pit for an encore.”

Dean’s heart nearly stopped. He couldn’t allow that to happen to Sam. Or Cas. He wracked his brain for some way around this, but didn’t see one. It was suicide, especially since this time it wasn’t about Michael wanting to wear him to Armageddon, but about revenge and going psycho on the world. Yet what choice did he have?

“I say yes, you leave Sam and Cas alone.”

“Dean—” Cas sucked in a harsh breath and squeezed his eyes shut as Michael torqued the angel sword again.

“Dammit, I mean it! You get me, you don’t need them.”

Michael appeared to be considering it, though Dean realized even if the archangel verbally agreed, he wasn’t exactly an agent of integrity anymore. He could lie…

Dean met Cas’s agonized gaze, trying to convey everything he’d wanted to say to the angel and hadn’t gotten the chance to because Dean had been stupid and petty and ashamed. _“I’m sorry, Cas,”_ he added in silent prayer.

Something flashed in Castiel’s eyes, that same spark of defiance Dean had witnessed when Cas trapped Raphael in a ring of holy fire way back when. Cas reached both hands up to wrap around Michael’s—and rammed the blade into his chest.

“No!” Dean shouted.

Michael let out a startled gasp and staggered backward. As Cas doubled over, Dean caught sight of the blade tip sticking out his back, and a fresh glowing wound in Michael’s own chest. Before Dean could think to move, Cas ripped the sword from his body with a cry and spun around to plunge it into Michael’s throat. The archangel’s eyes flew wide, a huge light growing in his mouth and eyes only to explode in a brilliant nova.

Dean threw a hand up to shield his face, but dropped it just as quickly. Michael’s body crumpled to the ground, bits of charred wings floating away on the air like ash. Cas swayed for a moment, and then collapsed.

“Cas!” Dean surged forward to drop down beside the angel. “What the hell were you thinking, you stupid son-of-a-bitch!” He pressed his palms to the gaping hole that was spilling both human and angelic life blood. Cas’s eyes had lost that spark, and were now dull and cloudy.

“Couldn’t…let him…hurt you…or Sam.”

Dean muttered something unintelligible under his breath, his heart rate increasing as blood seeped in an ever-widening patch on Cas’s chest and shoulder. He bunched up part of the trench coat to make a better compress.

“Leave it.” Cas weakly tried to shove him away.

“What do you mean leave it?” he snarled, remembering that angel blade wounds weren’t healed with an eye blink like other injuries to an angel’s vessel were.

Cas didn’t even look at him, merely stared up at the pewter sky. “I’m tired, Dean. I just want it to be over.”

His blood ran cold as those words echoed eerily in his head. That’s what Raphael had said about wanting the Apocalypse, that same night Cas had shown so much spirit against the archangel that had killed him once already.

“It is over, Cas. Michael’s gone, Raphael’s gone. There won’t be an Apocalypse ever again.” He pressed harder against the wound, wincing in sympathy as Cas’s face screwed up in silent pain. “You won the war.”

Cas’s voice came out paper-thin. “And lost everything else.”

“No you didn’t.” Dean moved one hand from applying pressure in order to clasp the side of Cas’s neck. “I’m still here, Cas. Sam and I are still here. And I’m so damn sorry I wasn’t there for you this past year, that I didn’t see what was going on. Not just with Michael, but with the whole war in Heaven. I was selfish and didn’t bother to give you the time of day.” He tightened his grip when Cas’s gaze started to drift, forcing it back to his. “You can’t check out now, Cas. You need to give me the chance to make it right.”

Cas stared at him silently, but it lacked the angel’s usual intensity, more like he was simply waiting for Dean’s face to be the last thing he saw. Dean’s pulse ratcheted up.

“Cas, listen to me. I know I’ve asked a lot of you this past year, and I know you’re tired. You deserve some rest.” The words were rushing out now, frantic in their effort to keep Cas from slipping away. “But I need you to do one more thing for me, and then I won’t ask anything ever again.”

A frail sigh issued from Castiel’s mouth. “What is it, Dean?”

“ _Stay_.” Dean’s chest constricted at the doubtful look in his friend’s eyes, and he swallowed around the spiky lump in his throat. “I _can’t_ lose you, Cas. Family’s the only thing I got in this world, and that’s you and Sam. I need you.”

Cas’s throat bobbed. He looked as though he wanted to believe, but the painful reality of the past year was holding him back.

“You said once that you’d rather be here with us, remember? I know that was you, not Michael.” Dean gave him a wan smile. “I want you here too, Cas. _Please_ don’t give up.”

Cas squeezed his eyes shut in anguish, and all Dean could do was hold one hand to his friend’s face while he continued to staunch the bleeding of crimson blood and glowing grace with the other. He didn’t know what else he could say. Words wouldn’t fix what was broken between them. They needed time and actions for that. As long as it wasn’t already too late to try.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, Cas lifted his hand to place over Dean’s. The angel was too weak to have much of a grip, but Dean saw as well as felt the resolve that Cas had mustered.

It took the last of his strength though, and Dean’s relief was short-lived as Cas’s eyelids slid shut and his head lolled to the side. Dean almost panicked, but reminded himself that dead angels went out in a burst of light and charred wings… _unless blown to a million pieces_. But Cas’s wings were not ash prints on the ground. Plus his hand was still resting on Dean’s, lax in unconsciousness, but conveying Castiel’s promise: he would hold on. Dean swore he’d never let go again either.


	7. Second Chances

Sam ran through the junk yard, heart pounding and blood roaring in his ears. He’d seen that flash of light which could only mean one thing. But he prayed to God—the real one—that it wasn’t. When he skidded around an old pickup truck, he nearly stopped breathing at the sight of Cas on the ground and Dean kneeling over him. ****

“Dean?” _No, please no_.

Dean looked up, expression pinched. “Help, Sammy.”

Sam stumbled over, and finally noticed the other body lying just beyond them. Ash coated the sparse weeds, and Sam’s heart plummeted. “Oh god…”

“He’s still alive,” Dean broke in. “Michael’s dead.”

That was _Michael_? Sam dropped to his knees next to Cas, who was covered in blood once again, a sight that still made Sam’s stomach turn. Especially because this was way too much red staining the coat and ground, not to mention seeping blue _grace_. “What happened?”

“I found Cas and Michael fighting,” Dean replied hoarsely. “It’s my fault, Sam. I distracted Cas, and Michael got the upper-hand. He wanted me to say yes to being his vessel.”

Sam sucked in a sharp breath, but quickly forced himself to calm down. Dean was still Dean, and Michael was dead. Cas was… _bleeding out_. “We should get him back to the house.”

Dean nodded, and shifted his grip so he could get one arm under the angel while maintaining pressure on the chest wound. Sam rolled Cas slightly to could get a good hold, and swore at the patch of blood soaking his back.

“Shit, Dean, it goes all the way through!”

Dean’s mouth disappeared in a tight line. “Cas did it.”

Sam blinked in bewilderment as he dug out his handkerchief to press against the exit wound. “What?”

“Michael had him. I couldn’t do anything, and he threatened you both if I didn’t say yes…” Dean swallowed hard. “Cas stabbed himself so hard the blade went right through him and into Michael. Then Cas killed him.”

Sam sputtered in disbelief as he stared at the unconscious angel. How many times was Cas going to commit suicide for the sake of the Winchesters? _He’s not dead yet, so get your butt in gear_.

“Okay, on three.” Sam counted, and together they lifted Cas off the ground, each one trying to keep pressure on those wounds while carrying the angel back toward the house. Bobby intercepted them on the porch, swearing up a storm and demanding to know what the hell happened. Sam gave him the same abbreviated version he’d gotten from Dean, minus a few details.

“There’s a body on the north end of the yard that needs disposing,” he finished.

Bobby grumbled a few indecipherable things under his breath as he held the door open for them. At least it was the back end of his property where no happenstance visitor would stumble across it.

“You taking him downstairs?” Bobby asked.

Sam and Dean exchanged a look; they didn’t really want to stick Cas in the panic room again. Besides, with Michael gone, they were finally safe.

Their hesitation was answer enough, and Bobby automatically made his way upstairs ahead of them. By the time they’d gotten Cas into the spare bedroom, Bobby had already laid down some towels on the bed. The brothers got Cas situated on his side, and Sam inspected the gaping holes under the torn jacket and shirt.

“I think the bleeding’s slowed way down,” he said, though the faint glow that still emitted from the holes unnerved him. “Should we stitch this? I mean, Cas will heal on his own, right?”

Dean’s face was a hardened mask, but there was a glint of doubt in his eyes that made Sam nervous. “Can’t see any harm in helping it along.”

“I’ll get the kit,” Bobby volunteered, and ducked out.

Sam stayed half-kneeling on the bed to keep Cas propped on his side. He watched Dean, who in turn watched Cas with a profound look of sorrow and desolation. Sam couldn’t imagine what his brother was going through, the guilt he must be feeling; he’d finally worked up the nerve to talk to Cas, no small feat for Dean, and now they were faced with possibly losing the angel again. Sam had gotten a chance to apologize to Cas, a chance to start the healing process between them, but even that was nowhere near enough. Cas couldn’t die now, not after everything.

Bobby returned with the sutures and bandages, and then took Sam’s place bracing Cas so he and Dean could cut away the trench coat, suit jacket, and shirt. When the angel recovered, Cas could repair something as easy as fabric. Probably. And if not, Sam would just buy him new clothes.

They set to work tending both wounds at the same time, Dean taking the front while Sam took the back. They wanted to make quick work in case Cas woke up soon. But the angel didn’t stir throughout the cleaning, stitching, or bandaging. Afterward, they eased Cas onto his back, and then Dean moved on to treating the cut above his brow. Bobby went to finally go take care of the deceased vessel out back, and Sam busied himself with cleaning up the bloody towels and supplies, constantly glancing over to see if Cas was showing any signs of waking. He wasn’t.

When they’d done all they could, Sam and Dean settled down to sit a quiet vigil over their friend. Dean couldn’t seem to sit still though, and kept rubbing his hands together, shoulders taut with tension. He was always more a man of action.

“He’s gonna be okay, Dean.”

Dean didn’t say anything for a long moment, and there was a haunted look in his eyes. “He wanted to die.”

Sam stiffened. “What are you talking about?”

“Cas.” Dean leaned forward in his chair and ran a hand down his wearied face. “Me and Michael screwed him over so bad he thought he had nothing left to live for. How the hell am I supposed to make that up to him?”

Sam shifted his gaze to the unconscious angel. Cas had lost so much. The war may have been over and the world saved yet again, but the list of casualties was high.

“Like this,” Sam said quietly. “By being here.”

Dean fell silent, and then laid a hand on Cas’s forearm, like a physical anchor able to keep the angel with them. Sam reached over from his side and took Cas’s other hand, adding his own tether. They’d been given another chance, despite all the second chances they’d squandered in the past. This time though, Sam was determined not to waste it.

* * *

Castiel was slow to waking yet again. And once again consciousness was more painful than the dark numbness of oblivion. His chest and back throbbed, though the rest of his limbs were oddly relaxed, cushioned against a soft mattress that was much more comfortable than the cot in the panic room. His hands also felt unusually warm. Without moving, Castiel pried his eyelids open and found himself looking at a smooth ceiling. He slowly roved his gaze around. Soft rays of light suffused around the edges of a slightly parted curtain, and he recognized one of the rooms in Bobby Singer’s house. As though summoned by the thought, the grizzly hunter stepped into Castiel’s field of vision.

“‘Bout time you woke up, Feathers,” he whispered, voice uncharacteristically soft.

Castiel frowned. “How long?” he rasped.

“Twenty-four hours.” Why was Bobby still speaking in a hushed tone? “Boys haven’t left your side once.”

Castiel’s gaze drifted down, first to the right and then the left where two heads of brown hair rested on the sides of the bed. Both Sam and Dean were clasping his hands, their grips loose in slumber. That warmth he felt in his palms suddenly spread to his chest. They were safe…and they were _here_.

He’d been thinking about getting up, but didn’t want to disturb the brothers. Instead, Castiel took a moment to catalogue his condition. His chest was swathed in bandages and a quilt had been drawn up over half his torso. His wounds hurt and he was still drained from the ordeal, but he would survive. Somehow, that made him feel even more tired.

“I’ve half a mind to tell you how much of an idjit you are,” Bobby grumbled under his breath.

Castiel furrowed his brow, which seemed to make Bobby snort.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t get it. Besides…I know everything you do is with these boys in mind.” Bobby cocked his head at the sleeping Winchesters. “And though it’s taken a while for these numbskulls to get it, they know now not to take you for granted. We all do.”

Castiel felt an uncomfortable tightness in his throat. “Bobby…”

The older hunter shook his head. “You just rest, Cas. This room’s yours as long as you need it.” He met Castiel’s gaze and firmly held it. “Sanctuary.”

_Sanctuary_. Castiel closed his eyes for a moment, overcome by a deluge of memory and emotion. When he’d first taken refuge in this house after being attacked—by Rachel, he now understood—Castiel knew Bobby had begrudgingly accepted him choosing to hide out there. The words the older man just offered, however, bore no trace of guilt or sense of obligation, only a genuine promise. And for the first time since this nightmare had become real, Castiel felt as though he might have a chance to come home.

“Boys.” Bobby nudged Dean, then reached over to jostle Sam. Castiel wanted to protest, but the brothers’ sleep had already been disrupted.

Dean jerked his head up. “What, what’s wrong?” His frantic gaze landed on Castiel, and his eyes flew wide. “Cas!”

“Cas?” Sam mumbled, jolting out of sleep as well. Both of them squeezed Castiel’s hands, and he found himself squeezing back.

“How you feeling?” Dean asked, eyes searching with an intensity normally reserved for Sam.

Castiel opened his mouth to reply, but then reconsidered his answer. “I’ve…been better. And worse.”

Dean’s lips seemed to twitch at that. Bobby gave him a small nod before discreetly slipping out of the room.

“You’re gonna be okay though, right?” Sam pressed.

“With time,” he admitted, and finally tried to sit up. At a poorly concealed grimace, two hands settled on his shoulders and gently pushed him back down.

“Take it easy,” Dean chided mildly. “There’s no rush.”

Castiel supposed that was true, now that he was no longer fighting a war, souls from Purgatory, or Michael. He glanced down at his bandages again. “Thank you for your care.”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck as though embarrassed. “Just don’t ever do that again,” he grumbled.

Castiel’s heart fell with the weight of the past year. “I don’t anticipate attempting to raise either of you from Hell again, so I think we can safely say I won’t be making the same foolish mistakes.”

“I don’t blame you for that, Cas,” Dean quickly responded. “Not for accidentally letting Michael out instead of Sam’s soul, or anything that douchebag did, while he was wearing you or not.” He looked away for a moment, and Castiel wondered if he was trying to hide a lie. But when he turned back, Dean leaned forward and clasped Castiel’s arm, lowering his voice. “I don’t ever wanna see you on the verge of giving up again.” He let out a deep breath. “And I’m sorry I had a hand in making you feel that way. I don’t deserve it, but…can you forgive me?”

Castiel blinked at him. Dean wanted his forgiveness?

“Me too, Cas,” Sam spoke up softly. “We both screwed up.”

Castiel dropped his gaze. When Dean had begged him to hold on, Castiel had not given the decision much thought beyond easing Dean’s pain. To wake up and find that Dean meant to see it through, that he would not abandon Castiel again…it was more than he’d expected.

“I am not entirely blameless,” he managed to say, lifting his gaze to look them both in the eye. “I should have stayed closer, kept better watch on you and Sam after I’d brought him back.”

Dean shook his head. “That wasn’t your job, Cas, it’s okay.”

“But it’s what friends do.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah, well, I hadn’t exactly given you a good role model in that department.”

Castiel pursed his lips. “But…we’re going to try again?”

Dean instantly straightened. “Hell yes. If you want to stick around, that is. Sam and me will get back on the road eventually, hunting monsters like we normally do.”

“After you’re fully recovered,” Sam hastily put in.

“Definitely after you’re back on your feet,” Dean agreed, with no trace of annoyance or impatience. “You deserve some rest, Cas, I mean that. And when you’re ready, if you want…well, the backseat in the Impala has your name on it.”

Castiel quirked his brow. “I don’t recall seeing my name anywhere on the upholstery.”

Sam ducked his head to hide a grin while Dean just rolled his eyes.

“Dean’s name isn’t on the driver’s seat either,” Sam explained. “But it’s where he belongs.”

“Same with Sam riding shotgun,” Dean said.

_Oh_. Castiel considered it for a long moment. Things had been rough between the three of them, but they were taking steps to mend it. Castiel didn’t really have anywhere else to go—he couldn’t return to Heaven. Yet the Winchesters were offering him a place with them instead. And as he’d secretly felt often during the war, it was the place he most wanted to be.

A small smile lifted the corner of his mouth, and he let himself relax fully into the mattress and pillow. “I’d like that.”


End file.
